


It's Nice to Have a Friend

by noodlecatposts



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Discussion of Abortion, Domestic Violence, F/F, F/M, Feyre POV, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Healing, Loss of Pregnancy, Online Friendship, POV Feyre Archeron, Past Abuse, References to Depression, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-08 05:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 61,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21470488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: Feyre always found it a bit silly that anyone should need an app in order to make a friend. How was it any different from all of those dating apps that plagued the world? Were they any different? Gods, were they worse?She decided to avoid both of them just the same.The one in which Feyre rebuilds her life in a post-Tamlin world. Using a mobile app for making friends, she meets the members of the inner circle, but Feyre comes to the conclusion that the people you need most will find you one way or another.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron & Alis, Feyre Archeron & Azriel, Feyre Archeron & Cassian, Feyre Archeron & Morrigan, Feyre Archeron & Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin
Comments: 286
Kudos: 384





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _As tagged, this fic includes themes of abuse and trauma, as well as anxiety and depression. Read with your personal health and care in mind._  
The other day I was listening to the radio, and the hosts were discussing some online friendship match-making service, where you pay however much money and the system/app/people/idk match you to someone to go do stuff with. My brain spiraled from there, and here we are.
> 
> It was going to be short and vignette-y, but as you can see, I failed with that. I haven't finished writing, so I can't tell you how long it is.
> 
> Enjoy!

## i. introduction

Feyre always found it a bit silly that anyone should need an app in order to make a friend. How was it any different from all of those dating apps that plagued the world? Were they any different? Gods, were they worse?

She decided to avoid both of them just the same.

But Feyre couldn’t deny that she found her life to be a bit… lacking. She’d never thought she lacked friends or things to do before the… before. It wasn’t until afterwards, until the dust settled, until her battle wounds had begun to scar over, that she realized just how much of her life was not actually her own making, how many pieces of her life belonged to a different person’s puzzle.

Afterwards… well, afterwards, Feyre was alone.

Except for Alis. Ever-diligent, loyal Alis. Feyre had Alis. Feyre always found her best friend to be her constant in a world of unknown; in a sea of uncertainty, Alis’s friendship was unfaltering. She didn’t know where she would be without Alis.

Yet, Alis couldn’t be the only person Feyre had—and Feyre knew that. Feyre had already lived that life, and she found it to be lacking. So, Feyre decided that she needed to make some friends, and she would do it the good old-fashioned way.

It turned out to be easier said than done.

She tried to befriend people. Truly. Feyre chatted with the people at work, tried to build rapport with the kind, polite faces, but it’s difficult to make friends as a temp. You work in one place long enough to learn the ropes, to learn the faces, and just as you’re starting to get somewhere, it’s time to move on to something else.

So, Alis brought Feyre to girl’s night… To say that was a disaster would be an oversight.

Feyre’s next plan of action was to try to make friends at the coffee shop, at the bookstore, at the bus stop… It was no use. No one found her worth their time; some believed she was just plain crazy. It was discouraging to say the least.

She decided to give up.

But Alis would not let her. Alis pushed and begged and demanded – all with the best of intentions, of course – for Feyre to try the app. She caved after months of grievous harassment; it’s hard to avoid a person when you live with them.

So, one-night Feyre made a profile. Well, Alis made Feyre a profile. Feyre supervised, glass of wine in hand, as her roommate went through the harrowing process of creating Feyre a bio (“I don’t even know about myself, Alis. How am I supposed to tell someone else?”) and selecting interests (“Alis, you forgot to put wine. I _like_ wine.”)

Her best friend just waved her off with a fond smile. Feyre supposed this could work. After all, Alis was her best friend in the world; if anyone knew what she wanted out of a friend, it would be her, wouldn’t it?

## ii. a late fall day

It was well into the second bottle of wine that Alis convinced me to take a picture. I gave the camera my best closed lip smile and tried not to cringe at the thought of what my hair might look like by this hour. I could only hope that I didn’t look _completely_ drunk in that picture, but it was out of my hands now. I’d just have to trust Alis; she hadn’t led me astray so far.

I battle my heavy eyelids as Alis fiddles with the phone, muttering things to herself that I cannot hear. From my perch besides her, I catch glimpses of faces as they flash across the screen. How can Alis even know if I’d get along with them while scrolling so quickly?

“I don’t like the look of them,” she states matter of fact, and I blink dumbly at her. I must have spoken aloud. Wine has always loosened my tongue. Alis swipes no at another brunette. Well, I think she looked rather nice.

“Hey,” I narrow my gaze at my friend. “What if she was meant to be my new best friend, and you just ruined our one shot at happiness?”

I gesture at her with my wine glass; the liquid within sloshes in a threatening manner. Alis rolls her eyes at me.

“Call it self-preservation,” Alis mutters. Then: “Well, _hello there!_”

Interested in her excitement, I lean forward to get a better look. The wine tilts precariously in my hands, and Alis confiscates the glass from me. I pout. At least until I see the phone.

“No!” I exclaim, snatching the phone from Alis before she can press the thumbs up button on the profile gracing the screen. A man with dark hair and brilliant blues stares back at me. I can’t help but note the all black ensemble that couldn’t be anything other than purposeful. “Not-not him.”

Alis looks surprised by my outburst, eyes wide. “Why on earth not? _Look at him._ I would absolutely go,” Alis crowds me to take another glance at the man’s profile. “Oh! Planetariums. Yes.” She nods ecstatically. “I would definitely go check out some weird star stuff with him.”

“It’s not weird star stuff,” I defend, surprising myself as well. “It’s educational.”

Alis’s arched brow tells me how unimpressed she is with me. “Whatever. Like I’d even be paying attention to the stars in the presence of that jawline.”

It’s my turn to look unmoved.

“I would, however,” she drawls, looking mischievous, “let him buy me dinner.”

Then Alis smiles slyly at me, eyes alight. “Is that the problem?” When I’m silent she grins wider. “Would you like him to buy you dinner, Fey?”

The idea makes my stomach plummet, and I’m filled with nausea at the thought of spending an evening with a man, a stranger no less. Alis must see my anxiety bubbling to the surface— who am I kidding. Of course, she does. My heart pounds in my chest, clattering against my ribcage, and I find myself incapable of breathing. My vision begins to blur.

My friend takes one of my trembling hands into hers and gives them a quick squeeze; her presence is a balm to my wretched soul.

“It’s okay, Fey.” Alis tells me. She waits patiently for me to come back to her; it takes time but I do. Her dark eyes are both understanding of me and angry at someone else at the same time. We’re complicated creatures, humans. To be able to feel so many different things all at once.

I release a ragged breath as my vision creeps back into focus.

I hardly feel anything these days, except for a disoriented sense of nothingness. Occasionally brief, strangulating periods of anxiety break their way into my consciousness such as just now, and they’re always followed by longer stretches of shamefulness. I became broken at some point during these last few years. I’ve yet to put the pieces back together.

“You can be not ready. You can click no. Or, well, thumbs down as it is.” Alis’s calm voice breaks through to me; she forces a laugh at the end for my sake. I try to smile, but I can feel my face twist into a grimace. I look back to my phone screen before I can see her pity.

_You can click no._ It’s been a while since I last felt this kind of control. I stare at the picture on the screen. I don’t have to see this man if I don’t want to; I never have to say anything to him ever, at all. I’m not required to go to dinner and eat with strangers, nor do I have to smile and pretend.

I can say no.

I do just that.

Still, I’m filled with a strange sense of regret as I watch the dark-haired stranger disappear from my screen, his blue eyes fading with him. I think that I might just be disappointed.

It’s stupid, to spiral out of control over whether or not it was the right call to talk to some stranger that will never know otherwise. I lean my head onto Alis’s shoulder, determined to shrug off the worry.

But it clings to me for the rest of the evening, like a second, too-tight skin. I finish my glass of wine, and then I make my excuses to go to bed. It takes no small effort to ignore my roommates careful gaze as I leave the room.

I didn't even catch his name.


	2. Chapter 2

## iii. The Morrigan

It would seem that Alis took full advantage of my lack of interest and buzzing state of mind last night.

I wake to a notification from my phone; it’s from the app. Someone has reached out to me. I bolt upright in my bed, sleep falling away from me as panic rushes in. _Someone messaged me; someone wants to talk to me; what do I do; what do I say; what if they hate me?_

It takes me a moment to regain myself, to reign in that fretful inner beast that haunts me so. I know that focusing on the what-ifs is a sure-fire way to trigger a full-blown panic attack. Still, my heart rate increases as I open the application.

Sure enough, as if the front screen of my phone could have made it up, a red little 1 haunts the corner of the menu screen, taunting me with its sweet, cruel promises.

I shut my eyes and press the screen, opening the inbox. I take a deep breath, and then I look.

My horror only escalates at the sight of the stunning blonde taking up the screen. The woman looks like she might have just waltzed off a runway and onto a beach somewhere tropical and far away from the cold tundra of Prythian. I’m caught somewhere between feeling utterly inadequate and completely jealous.

I take a look at the actual profile, choosing to ignore the absolute grace and ownership with which this girl rocks a red, high-waisted bikini and a pair of white shades. Totally unfair.

**Mor (Morrigan)**

Age 24, Prythian

_Adventurous, young professional looking to meet new and exciting people with like-minded interests._

Well, that sounds put together as hell. What did Alis write about me? I shudder at the thought and choose not to investigate until later. I continue my perusal of her profile—something I would have done _before_ giving her my thumbs up. Thanks, Alis.

_My interests include: shopping, eating, crying during romcoms, and going out for a night on the town. _

_My dislikes consist of: bigoted males—_

I snort loud and unattractively. Alright, I like this girl immensely. Good job, Alis.

_—Bigoted males who think they know best and anti-LGBTQ sentiment, which may be redundant. Oh! And sushi, bleh._

I’m grinning so hard by the time I finish that my face aches. I scroll through the application’s formal rating system of likes and dislikes, but I’ve already made up my mind to message her back.

> **MOR (today @ 1:13PM)**
> 
> _Hiya! _
> 
> _Wow, it’s v. late to message someone._
> 
> _I just did it again!_
> 
> _Shit. Now you’ll never speak to me! SORRY._

I laugh at the stream of consciousness. Part of me wondered if Mor, too, had been wine drunk last night. For the first time in a long time, I click the send button without a shred of apprehension; the response comes easily.

> **FEYRE (today @ 8:32AM)**
> 
> _Good morning!_
> 
> _There—now, I have had my revenge._
> 
> _This friendship is off to a lovely start._

I smile at the message, fighting off the tendrils of anxiousness that threaten me. What if I wake her up, and I’ve only just pissed her off? She looks like the kind of girl to know how to bring ruination to someone. I send one more message, resistless.

> **FEYRE (today @ 8:38AM)**
> 
> _(Also, super sorry if I’ve woken you up. You must be tired.)_

I press send just as Alis knocks on my door, calling out my name with hesitation. I wonder if she heard me laughing and has come to check on me, to be sure that I haven’t utterly lost my mind? I invite her in, shutting off the phone screen and tucking it under my pillow to be forgotten. Otherwise, I’ll stress over it.

“You’re up early,” Alis eyes me curiously. She says nothing of my laughter, but it’s probably out of kindness more than anything else. “Is everything alright?”

“It’s great, actually.” My best friend raises her brow at me, but I choose not to give her any details. “Hey, you’re off today—do you want to go out for breakfast?”

Her uncertain expression morphs into delight. Alis has spent the last six months practically spoon-feeding me, watching as my waist slimmed to nearly nothing, and my clothes threatened to swallow me whole.

I’ve tried countless times to regain the appetite I once had. I know that I am losing what little weight I already had on me, and yet, the task seems momentous, even now. I’ve reached the point where I no longer look in the mirror, too numb to be concerned with something as frivolous as appearances.

Still, Alis accepts my suggestion. “Yes, I’ve got just the place in mind.”

## iv. the coffee shop

Alis and I traipse across town to get to the location she mentioned. We take public transport most of the way and get off at a stop near the river. The Sidra’s icy waters sparkle in the morning glow, and I think back to a time when I would have gone home early, just to paint the image burned behind my eyelids.

“It’s not much farther now,” Alis tells me, blowing into her mittens to return some of the warmth to them. “Hopefully, we’re early enough to get a table.”

I raise my brows at her in question, but she shrugs. “It’s a very popular place. There aren’t very many good places open for breakfast; hence, the trek across all of Prythian just for some good waffles.”

I chuckle at her, which appears to please Alis to no end. It makes me feel guilty to see how much my good mood has brightened her own. I don’t want my suffering to weigh upon her shoulders. Yet, it appears that despite all my efforts, I’ve been unsuccessful in that endeavor.

I take a look around as we walk towards what I’ll assume is the direction of the restaurant. I’ve never been to this side of town before. Cobblestone sidewalks line the streets, and the buildings appear to be of similar age. The neighborhood seems forgotten as newer, modern buildings arose on the other side of the city. In that abandonment, the area suffered mistreatment, fell to the wayside. The signs are in the spots of worn paint and crumbled brick speckled throughout.

Boutiques and bistros have reclaimed the area now, whitewashing old brick and setting out new, clean benches for people to sit on. The lampposts host flower baskets; although, the plant life within has either gone dormant or has succumbed to the cold nights we’ve had recently. I find myself falling in love with the area immediately; I’m surprised I’ve never been here before.

Well, perhaps, not too surprised. This is precisely the trendy and fun place that _he_ would hate. The reclamation of the old by the new would leave a bitter taste in his mouth, would be more than enough cause for the scowl that haunts my dreams at night. The sensation of breaking with tradition, of accepting the new into the old, that permeates here would go against the very fiber of his being._ He_ would tell me not to come here, insist it is for my safety that I obey. And I would.

“Bring on the waffles!” Alis cheers as we settle into one of the tables inside. I grin; her enthusiasm is contagious.

The restaurant Alis has led me to is more or less a coffee shop with a kitchen; it’s one of those little joints that set up for one purpose but winds up excelling in another, albeit a correlating one. I eye the place as we wait for our food. I ordered doughnuts, an indulgence if there ever was one.

Plaster has come off from some of the walls, revealing the brickwork hiding beneath, but the shop owner has owned that fact, decorated it in such a way that would applaud the defect rather than try and cover it up. Unlike some of the other buildings, they did not paint over the brick. Instead, it was left raw and in its natural state of reds and browns, allowed to contrast with the meticulously grey-painted walls.

I appreciate it, this celebration of faults.

Ferns grow in the windows, hanging from the ceilings and soaking up the warmth from the ventilation. The picturesque scene out the window would almost fool someone into thinking the weather was kinder than the cold Autumn that’s arrived.

“How’d you find this place?” I ask Alis as we dive into our food. The soft texture of the doughnut was perfect, delicious. I take another bite and almost forget I’d said anything.

“Uh,” Alis begins indecisively. She flashes me a wobbly smile. “Well, I came here on a date.”

My mouth falls open in surprise, chewed up doughnut on full display. Alis grimaces at the sight, and I recover long enough to swallow my food.

“I’m sorry—what?” I choke out. I can feel that my eyes are as wide as saucers. “When did you have a date? Who? What?”

Alis’s face is repentant. “It was a month or two ago. I didn’t mention it at the time, well, because…”

She trails off meaningfully. I bite back the bitter taste of regret on my tongue. Alis didn’t mention the date to me then because until a matter of weeks ago, I was nothing more than a robot going to and from work, curling up in my bed at the end of a long, difficult day and skipping my meals.

Alis didn’t tell me because she didn’t want to trouble me. Because she was afraid that hearing about her happiness would bother me while I rested in limbo, grieving, and healing from the last three years of my life.

“Alis…” I trail off, setting down the fork I held. The doughnut has turned to ash in my mouth.

My best friend waves me off, self-sacrificing to a fault. “It’s no matter, Feyre. The whole thing was an utter disaster, anyway. She was so boring that I almost considered playing sick—But! I did discover this place.”

Her smile is almost convincing. I hold my frown; guilt plaguing my thoughts. I am her best friend, but I hardly know anything about what is happening in her day to day life.

“Feyre,” Alis warns, a quiet ferocity in her voice. “Don’t make that face.”

“I,” I sigh, searching for the words. Alis will never let me blame myself even if I try. “You—I haven’t been there for you.” I settle on. “I’m so sorry.”

Silver lines Alis’s warm, brown eyes, and she reaches across the table to take my hand in hers. “Sometimes, Feyre, it gets to be all about you. What you’ve been through,” I flinch at the mention, even as vague as it is. “Well, you’ve earned the right to be a bit selfish for a while.”

I sniffle back the tears clogging my throat. It wouldn’t do either of us any good to burst into tears here in the middle of a restaurant.

“But not forever,” Alis chirps, picking up her silverware and cutting into her waffle once more. The touching moment behind us. Her expression is dispassionate as she looks me over. “Make no mistake that I expect full compensation for my efforts when the time comes.”

I laugh at what would appear to anyone else to be unkind words. Alis loses a fight with her smile. Despite the tears glimmering in either of our eyes, we chuckle our way through the rest of the meal. I feel lighter than I have in weeks; although, I’m acutely aware of the heaviness pressing down on me throughout our time in the coffee shop. I push it away, for now, determined to keep it at bay. For Alis.


	3. Chapter 3

## v. breakfast

I can’t help but sag in relief as Alis skips away from the table to order more coffee. Without her observant eyes on me, I can allow myself a moment of reprieve. The smile I’ve fought to keep vanishes, and my shoulders sag under the momentous weight that I carry. I don’t know when it appeared, this weight, nor can I pinpoint how exactly it got there.

Did I pick it up one day? Or did this invisible beast latch onto me one day with no plans of ever letting go?

A faint, buzzing noise catches my attention. My first instinct is to check Alis’s phone, left face down on the table, thinking it perhaps work or her sister trying to get in touch. The phone lights up when I touch it, but the only thing I see is her wallpaper, a picture of Alis and one of her nephews beaming. She doesn’t get to see them as often as she’d like, thanks to work, but this picture is relatively recent from the Summer just passed.

I feel the ghost of a smile on my face, but the buzzing noise persists, distracting me.

I give a surreptitious glance around at my fellow diners. None of them appear to notice my looking. A few have their phones out; there are others engaged in deep conversation with their companions. It isn’t coming from them.

Another buzz.

Chagrin eats at me as I realize that the source of the noise is none other than my phone. I dig it out from my purse where it hides, and I take a look. I’m not popular enough to warrant such attention and not at this hour.

Fear sinks its claws into me. It could only mean one thing: something is wrong. I yank the phone out, preparing for the worse.

_Where are you?_

_Who are you with?_

_Come home. Now._

My hands tremble, and it takes me a moment to soothe my racing heart. It doesn’t matter that I’ve changed my number, that I got a new phone plan altogether, under Alis’s name; I’m afraid. He was always persistent, intelligent, and systematic. In control.

_1 New Message from Mor._

Briefly, I ponder on the intelligence of plugging my identity into a social media platform such as this. Anyone could see it, find me. Particularly people that I don’t want to find me. I’m already considering deleting the profile and uninstalling the application. I’ve deleted everything else. All of it. Every last shred of my online identity erased from the books.

I tap the notification, open the message. Morrigan’s beaming smile and warm chocolate eyes watch me from the corner of the screen. It makes me smile, and I forget my worries.

> **MOR (today @ 10:41AM)**
> 
> BAHAHAHA!!!
> 
> I deserved that.

I hesitate to respond. What do I say? It’s a weird thing to enter a conversation with a total stranger without any pretense like I’ve known them all along. I’m trying to think of something to say, something witty, but my mind goes blank under pressure.

I’m saved as the typing ellipses appears. I wait. A glance at Alis tells me that she is placing her order at last. I wish the three walking dots to move faster; for some reason, I don’t want Alis to know about her success. I can’t say if it is embarrassment or just the desire not to fluff her ego, but it’s there, a sense of urgency.

> **MOR (today @10:46AM)**
> 
> Sadly, I had a 7AM meeting this morning. EW!
> 
> These boys won’t stop droning on and on.

I laugh, but the noise surprises me, so I stop. I glance up at Alis again; she’s found someone she knows and is in the midst of an animated conversation. I catch her eye, and she raises a brow at me. _Are you okay? Do I need to come back?_ I shake my head. She looks like she’s having such a good time.

> **FEYRE** **(today @ 10:50AM)**
> 
> You’re still in there? Like the same meeting?
> 
> Sorry that sounds like torture.
> 
> **MOR (today @ 10:50AM)**
> 
> IT IS

She responds before I can send my next question. I wait to see if she has any more to say, but the ellipses don’t return.

> **FEYRE (today @ 10:54AM)**
> 
> What do you do?

Is it important? It must be if Morrigan is waking up at the crack of dawn to sit in a meeting for hours. _A young professional_ was what her bio said.

> **MOR (today @ 10:55am)**
> 
> Basically I rub elbows fancy people and make bad behavior look good in the media.
> 
> **FEYRE (today @ 11:01AM)**
> 
> Is that who you’re in a fancy meeting with?
> 
> Fancy people?

Mor responds almost immediately. I wonder if these fancy people have noticed that she’s sitting on her phone.

> **MOR (today @ 11:02AM)**
> 
> Worse. My father and his compatriots.
> 
> What about you?

I wince at the question. I feel shame in telling someone who’s got their life together that you work for a measly temp agency.

> **FEYRE (today @ 11:06AM)**
> 
> I work for a temp agency.
> 
> Impressive, I know.

I can’t help the self-deprecation. It’s always been a tactic of survival for me. Make fun of myself before they can make fun of me. I search for something else to say, something to carry on the conversation – I find I’ll be disappointed if it peters out – but then Alis flops into the chair in front of me. I feel like I’ve been caught doing something naughty.

My best friend gives me a knowing smile, and I cringe internally. There’s nothing worse than an Alis-See-I-Told-You-Why-Doesn’t-Anyone-Listen lecture. We still have a bit of a trip to make back home; there will be no escape if she starts now.

Surprising me, Alis asks if I’d like to go check out a bookstore with her. I’d rather not, and if the way Alis adds quickly that she just needs to get this _one book_ is any indication, my preference must show on my face.

“Alright,” I concede if only because the guilt will consume me, of knowing she’d need to make a return trip later, without me. Alis would never leave me to trek home alone; she’d be offended at the suggestion.

We head home right after the bookstore. Somehow Alis manages to snag more than just _one book_ in the time it takes me to pick out a few bookmarks. They’re too cheap to pass up, but I also have no use of them. It’s been forever since I last read something.

Between the bookstore and the chilly trip home, I manage to forget about the conversation with Mor, and my anxiety fades with it. Alis and I laze about the house for the afternoon. I try to last until dinner, but soon I find the dredges of numbness, of listlessness, returning. I don’t bother with excuses; Alis’s nose is deep into one of her freshly acquired books.

As I snuggle under the comfortable weight of my comforter, I smile to myself. Today has been a perfect day. I went out; I had fun; I laughed. I may have made a new friend.

The thought makes me frown; I realize I’ve forgotten Mor and her quick responses. I pat around my bed, looking for my phone before I recall that it still rests in my purse. I’m unused to anyone other than Alis trying to get into touch with me, and Alis knows to knock on my door if it’s important.

The thought of getting up to fetch my phone, to see what Mor replied, is a daunting task. I’ll check later, I tell myself. When I wake up, the messages will still be there, supposing she responded. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mor changed her mind, chose to conversate with someone else. Someone funnier and better accomplished. Someone who won’t pull them down into their vortex of ambiguity.

Someone more worthwhile.

## vi. late night or early morning?

I wake sometime late in the night. My room is pitch black, and the lack of light visible through the cracks in the door tells me that Alis has also retreated to her room. To sleep or to keep reading, I cannot say.

My mind immediately latches on to the mystery of the messages I’ve ignored. _Did she answer? What if she didn’t? Who cares? I think I care. I don’t even know her. What if she thinks I’m—_

Worthless.

There’s only one way to find out.

I run for my purse; under the impression that, if I move quickly enough, I won’t feel the cold wood under my feet. My bag is where I left it, tossed aside onto an armchair that collects our discarded coats and bags like baseball cards. I flee back to my bedroom. 

Once tucked back under the covers, I pull out the phone and open the messages.

> **MOR (yesterday @ 11:06AM)**
> 
> Yeah, it is!
> 
> Work is work, girl. Everyone’s gotta pay their way.

Then as if my lack of response made her worried:

> **MOR (yesterday @ 11:32AM)**
> 
> Feyre? I hope I haven’t offended you. Again.
> 
> I know people who’ve had their jobs for years but can barely manage.
> 
> You’re doing something new every few weeks.
> 
> That’s awesome.

Then an ice breaker of sorts.

> **MOR (yesterday @ 11:39AM)**
> 
> You’ve abandoned me in my hour of need!
> 
> Also, how do you say your name?

I can’t help but wonder who this girl is, to be so worried about my feelings. I’m just some stranger she gave a thumbs up to on the internet. I’m barely comfortable letting myself worry over my emotions. It’s beyond weird to have someone else doing it, especially someone who isn’t Alis.

I feel uncomfortable thinking about it.

Yet, I can’t help but feel that with Morrigan, I don’t need to worry. Even as the anxiety begins to return, needling me from the back of my mind.

_I shouldn't have wasted my time with you, one someone so—useless._

> **FEYRE (today @ 12:31AM)**
> 
> It’s Fey-ruh. 
> 
> And you didn’t offend me.
> 
> Sorry to leave you hanging, I got busy.

Perhaps it’s a cowardly move to lie, but I cannot bear to go into the details of my day. That going to breakfast and making a simple stop at the bookstore depleted all of my energy, and I escaped into a long, dreamless sleep.

> **FEYRE (today @ 12:36AM)**
> 
> How did the rest of the meeting go?

Morrigan is delighted to hear back from me. As before, she responds immediately despite the hour. I'm left to wonder when she sleeps. We exchange tidbits of information about our lives. She complains that her meeting held her hostage all morning, but she forgave them when they ordered lunch. We discuss movies that we liked, and I vehemently defend my favorite against her teasing.

It’s easy, lighthearted. Mor doesn’t know I’m messed up. She doesn’t get woken up by my nightmares. Just as I’m about to bid her goodnight, she sends another message.

> **MOR (today @ 2:44AM)**
> 
> Hey, there’s a new movie coming out next Friday.
> 
> Wanna go see it? I promise not to eat all of the popcorn.

I know that this is the sole purpose of joining the friend app; I want to make friends, and friends go places together. It just seems too easy. Yet, everything about this conversation with Morrigan has come easily.

I have to remind myself that not everything in my life is a trap.

> **FEYRE (today @ 2:50AM)**
> 
> That sounds like fun. Name the time and place.
> 
> Also, goodnight.
> 
> **MOR (today @ 2:50AM)**
> 
> Yay!!!!!!!!!!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one section today, darlings! But it's a long one!
> 
> I've also adjusted the rating if it bothers any of you. As I get further along in my writing, it's more to cover my bases than anything, but everything is comparative to the actual novels themselves... So. *shrugs*
> 
> _This chapter contains assault (implied to be of a sexual nature). It's inspired directly from canon events._

## vii. a bad day<strike> at work</strike>

My first day of work at my new assignment is total hell.

I wake up late for work, and I spill my coffee onto my blouse an hour into the day. The bus doesn’t arrive on time, and I trip and crack the screen of my phone, rushing down the sidewalk to get to the office. There are fifty thousand people waiting on the elevators, and it takes a million years to make our way to the 66th floor. I think we've stopped at every level.

This week has me working as primarily a copy girl. I hang out in a bland little cubby with beige walls and a piece of beige furniture and a, well, a copy machine. The work is repetitive. But at least I have work.

I try to create a game out of it at first. I make it my challenge to reach the bottom of the pile of papers before someone can drop more onto the stack. I get pretty close once or twice, but eventually, I lose my vigor. The hours start to tick by slower, and my vision goes out of focus to the point where I am hardly paying attention.

Janice, a woman who has assigned herself as ruler of the temporary associates, is a terror in a pale gray suit. She sneers at me whenever she enters, and yet, I don’t think she has any real power. Though, as an actual employee of the company, I suppose she does have more ability than me. Janice’s shadow is named Clare; I’m only able to ascertain that information via a glance at Clare’s nametag. Janice prefers to beckon the brassy haired woman with ambiguous terms, such as _Bring me some coffee_ and _Can’t you do one thing, right?_

I discover at lunch that someone has stolen my prepared meal, container, and all—which is just plain rude; so, I venture out into the chilly weather to find myself something to eat. There’s a food truck selling a variety of options, and I order myself a sandwich. It’s one of the cheapest items on the menu, and I’m not inclined to spend a ton of money on food that I’m just going to pick at.

At mealtimes, food has become more of a prop than anything. I find myself lacking an appetite most days, but if there’s one thing I find more uncomfortable than spending the day in a coffee-stained blouse, it’s having people stare at me because I’m sitting at a lunch table, not eating.

I nibble at the fries as I make my way back towards the building Hybern Inc. calls its headquarters. Without Janice’s hovering or the loud hum of the copy machine, my brain is fully capable of fussing over the upcoming movie date with Morrigan. We’ve chatted intermittently throughout the week, and I’m confident that we will get along fine in person.

However, my brain can’t stop suffering over the what-ifs.

I tell myself that that is why I’m walking through the street without paying attention to my surroundings. Truthfully, I’m not sure that I wouldn’t have been oblivious to my impending doom even without some mild social anxiety to fret over. A lot of my time passes in a dull blur. One day it will cost me. It would seem that day is today.

A sturdy hand clasps around my arm, spinning me around in a blur. The man I face is a stranger. He leers.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” the man purrs. My skin crawls; some instinct tells me that I am in trouble.

“What do you want?” I ask. My voice is sharp with fear, and I hate myself for it. The sound appears to please the guy gripping my arm too-tight.

“I thought you might like to take a walk with me,” he tells me with another smile. His teeth are yellow.

“And why would you think that?” I raise my voice, hoping to draw some attention to us. The stranger’s fingers flex against my arm in warning; his grip is hard, bruisingly so.

It’s the middle of the day, lunch rush. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen in broad daylight; they happen to girls who wander the streets after dark, alone and ill-prepared. I guess I've got two out of three going for me. “You don’t even know me.”

Another smile. This one is a warning for me to behave, to remain docile; I hate that I'm inclined to obey. “Come with us.”

_Us_. I notice the change. As he tugs on my arm again, I feel another presence at my back, and I can make out someone else to my right, from the corner of my eye. I’m afraid to break eye contact with the first of them to check, to count.

Surrounded by three strange men, I find myself outnumbered. With one person, I could cause a scene, attract attention. I might not be any physical threat, but I know I could give them some trouble if I tried. Panic seizes my heart; the traitorous organ races in my chest and steals my breath from my lungs. They could easily overpower me and drag me away. The men draw near. They’re going to kill me—if I’m lucky.

Would anyone at the office notice that I didn’t make it back from lunch? How long would it take for someone in my life to come looking for me? I have the heart-wrenching discovery that there’s only one person that falls on that list.

_Alis_. I’m struck with the twisted thought that maybe this isn’t such a bad thing. If I’m out of the picture, then she won’t have to fuss over me anymore. I can stop weighing down her life with my uselessness. She’ll grieve, but maybe then she could move on. I’m just holding her back.

Belatedly I regret not making it to the movies with Mor. I’ve already given up.

The men corral me towards an alley. It’s so predictable that I have to snort. One of them shoves me, finding my humor unamusing, and I stumble.

I don’t want to die, even if it would be easier.

“Leave. Me. Alone.” I yell as everything snaps back into focus. My crippling panic turns into adrenaline. The men behind me try to wrap their arms around me and hold me still. I manage to dig one pointy elbow into a gut and hear a satisfying grunt of pain.

“There you are!” A smooth, proud voice calls down the alley. We all start, and the men at my back release me instinctively. I back away from them in a shuffle, pressing myself into the wall and crossing my arms for protection. I’ve lost my purse.

“I’ve been looking for you!” A sharp pair of blue eyes look me over, but the gaze isn’t predatory. At least not when aimed at me.

The newest addition to our little party shoots a scathing look at my assailants. It’s disparate to the friendly tone coming out of his mouth; his honeyed words are sickly sweet. “Thank you, gentlemen, for taking such good care of her for me.”

Despite the rescue attempt, his choice of words grates. Take care of me? As if I were some doll to be dressed up and led around by the hand, put on display, but never left to my own devices.

I’ve been that doll before. It nearly killed me.

“We’ll just be going.” My champion comes near me, reaches to place his arm around me. There’s no mistaking my flinch at his touch. His arm slides away from me, but the dark-haired stranger remains close.

The men appear dumbfounded. They glance at one another, trying to make a decision. Technically they still outnumber us, but I’d wager a weak, defenseless girl makes a more appealing target than a weak, defenseless girl and her finely muscled lunch date.

“Don’t want to miss our reservation. Do we, darling?” The warning is clear, both in the man’s smooth voice and piercing eyes. Although the words are directed to me, his eyes remain glued to the men before us.

At the same time, they come to the same decision as I did. As the creeps flee, my rescuer wanders away from my side. I feel the loss of his presence immediately, and I begin to unravel again. How does this shit always happen to me? Did I piss off some god in another lifetime?

Just as it appears that this stranger is just going to leave me behind in some random alley, he returns with my purse and a conspiratorial smile.

He doesn’t get as close to me now as he did under the watchful eyes of my attackers; instead, he holds out the beat-up bag for me to grab from his warm hands. Numbly, I accept the bag from him and check for my wallet. It’s still in there; so, their plans weren’t to mug me after all. I shiver.

When I don’t respond, the stranger’s smile begins to waver. He pockets his hands.

“Would you like to call someone?” He asks. I take a moment to appreciate the fact that he didn’t ask me if I was alright. It would take a fool to miss my trembling hands and pale face.

“No. Th-thank you.” I stutter the words to him. He seems satisfied with lingering in the alley, giving me knowing smiles, but I am not. And I’m late getting back to work from lunch. Janice will be furious with me.

“The honor is mine,” the man tells me in a choice of words that sound like something out of a fantasy novel. I eye him suspiciously as he follows me out back towards the main street, but his smile returns with renewed vigor.

“Aren’t you going to tell your savior your name?” He drawls all confidence and bravado. There’s a part of my mind that tells me this man wants to get a reaction of me, to ascertain if I’m in shock or something, but the rest of me, upset and frustrated at my misfortune, ignores it.

“It’s not every day I get to save a damsel in distress after all.” The dark-haired man muses aloud. His steps are leisurely compared to my quick walk. I envy his height and long legs; I’ve spent my whole life trying to catch up with everyone else, and this man can do it without breaking a sweat

“I’m not a damsel.” The words are harsher than I intend; they escape my mouth in a rush of air. The man’s eyes flicker with understanding, but his smile doesn’t fade.

“Of course not.” His voice is softer now lacking the teasing lilt as if he gets it. I might hate that more. Shouldering my bag, I storm down the sidewalk towards the office. To my disappointment, he follows, but there’s no missing the respectful distance he maintains.

Shooting a glare over my shoulder, I’m tempted to ask this guy if he thinks following a girl recently saved from an attack is the right call—even if he was the one who saved her from her crisis. He smiles when I meet his eye, warm and friendly, and happy. Maybe he's a little bit crazy.

Without further conversation, we make our way to the front doors of the massive skyscraper that contains Hybern Inc. My knight in shining armor decided to walk me to safety without asking. Nervous, I face him. I can’t say if it’s because he scares me, or if it is because I am just merely afraid.

“This is me. Thanks.” _Have a nice life_. I add mentally.

He tilts his head inquisitively, blue eyes flickering over the shinning window panes of the tower of Hybern and then back to me. I think I make out the surprise in his blue eyes, but it turns to amusement before I can be sure.

“Interesting.” He purrs, vague.

I grimace, suddenly afraid of running into this stranger again. That he’ll be out here waiting for me one day, right here where I leave him. That he’ll catch me before work one day, that he’ll show up for my lunch hour, try to walk me home after hours. One day, I’ll wake up, and he’ll have slipped into every facet of my life without my realizing it, without my having given any real, conscious consent to it.

My heart pounds at the memory.

“May I ask your name?” The man asks again; this time, he appears—timid. It’s not an adjective I’d ever thought applied to his type. Yet, I appreciate the change in wording. It gives me a sense of control, of the ability to say no, but I am too afraid he won’t accept it if I exercise that right.

_You can say no_, Alis told me. But what about those times when _No_ goes unheard? Like in the alley.

“Clare,” I decide on, thinking of the woman I worked alongside this morning, under Janice’s reign. Clare with the brassy hair and dark eyes, who makes sassy faces behind her terrifying boss's back. Who was helpful to me on a shitty day.

It’s cowardly of me to lie, but I can’t help recall the time another stranger used my name and his power to learn my address and surprise me at home. I fight off a shudder. “Clare Beddor,” I repeat, hopefully with more confidence than I am feeling. Clare would be confident in front of a handsome stranger; she’d probably flirt too.

“Clare,” he tastes the name. His eyes are too intelligent, and I have to wonder if he knows I’m lying. I wonder if he’ll call me out on it. Those eyes examine me one more time, then look back up the skyscraper, solving some secret mystery I'm not privy too. “Be safe, Clare Beddor.”

I don’t think he’s just referring to creeps lurking down dark alleys. I spare him an awkward wave and escape inside in a hurry. The lobby is pleasantly warm, but the dark walls and antique furniture are haunting for a reason I cannot place.

Heading towards the elevator, I have the sensation of someone’s arms wrapping around my waist and pulling me back, trying to restrain me; I have to hold my breath until the elevator gets to my floor.

Another ghost to haunt me.


	5. Chapter 5

## viii. clare

A few days later, Clare Beddor is called upstairs to the executive offices.

I’ve been released from my cell of a copy room, for the time being, leaving some other poor sap to run the copier machine in my stead. I hope whoever it is, treats him well. I’m rolling my eyes internally at myself—who gets emotionally attached to a copy machine?—when the phone rings, Janice answers in a sickly faux-polite voice, and then Clare leaves.

The other temps and I look around at each other. It’s obvious we hope that at least one of us lowly employees know what the gossip is. Janice was all too pleased to send Clare away from the conference room the lot of us have taken over to complete our new assigned task, stuffing envelopes for some fancy event the company is hosting on Halloween.

My dark-haired protector did not return for me this morning; curiously, I find this to be both a relief and tad disappointing, which is just a confusing way to feel. I may have neglected to mention my eventful lunch to Alis last night; although, she would be furious with me to discover that I had omitted such a critical detail during my first-day-of-work-recap.

Let her think I had another one of those bad dreams of mine where I find myself hiding in a closet listening to the sound of shattering plates, trapped and afraid, and unable to breathe.

Yes, that sounds much better than telling Alis that some fucking creep and his friends tried to drag me down a dark alley and have their way with me. I shudder.

As I fold invitations, I can’t help the way my mind reels with this new development. Why would the bosses wish to speak with Clare? What’s a COO? Is she in trouble? Did Janice report her for making faces behind her back? But she is always so sneaky about it.

My brain conjures the memory of the stranger from yesterday. The one who saved me. The one I lied to about who I was. The one who I told that my name was Clare. Clare, like the woman who just got called up to the top levels of this very dark and shiny skyscraper.

_Be safe, Clare. _He told me.

Clare wears a befuddled expression when she returns to the group. She doesn’t make eye contact with any of us; I have to give her credit for the way she reclaims her seat without looking at Janice’s very smug expression.

I have a million questions I’m burning to ask Clare, but I bite my tongue to keep them back. It’s pure vanity on my part to assume that her summons has anything to do with me. Or how I used her name as my alias. That man from yesterday isn’t looking for me. I’m not that important. Clare probably just got caught making her snide comments, the ones that she mutters about Janice under her breath. Rightly deserved comments perhaps, but still, a stupid thing to do if you want to keep your job.

#

Someone, braver than I, asks Clare about her odd trip upstairs during lunch. As I am apt to do, I’ve claimed a table separate from my co-workers, but I'm still near enough to overhear the conversation. I remind myself that it is none of my business, even as I pretend to play with my phone and eavesdrop.

Clare tells her audience that the COO called her upstairs to discuss Hybern Inc.’s HR policy on fraternizing with co-workers. According to _sources_—Clare uses her fingers to make quotation marks—Clare was seen downstairs in the lobby, socializing with a superior and returning from a lunch date with them.

“Which is pretty weird,” Clare declares, enjoying the rapt attention of her co-workers. “Because I don’t recall _fraternizing_ with anyone, much less going on a lunch date with the _C. X. O.”_

The girl breaks up the acronym for effect, but I’m too busy trying to discern what the title means to appreciate her efforts. “I was up here the whole time; although, I’d definitely risk another conversation with HR if it meant I’d get the like of _him_ to take me out.”

The other girls giggle knowingly, and I tune out the conversation then. Morrigan is much more interesting than some silly gossip about a guy. The movie comes out next Friday, and I’m surprised at just how excited I am to go. I almost wish it were sooner.

#

The week passes on without much notice. The next as well. The seasonal employees have all be diverted to assist with the preparations for some snooty baby shower for an employee upstairs; it seems ridiculous to do all this work for someone who I don't even know. I hope Kim enjoys all this pink crepe paper. 

I chat with Morrigan and drink with Alis, and I do a reasonably good job at keeping the shadows at bay during the waking hours. 

I still have no control over my mind during unconsciousness, but if Alis has heard me screaming at night to be left alone, she doesn’t comment. It’s not for lack of care; my best friend would stay at my side and hold my hair back all night, and every night, if I were to let her. I can’t bear the thought of being a burden. 

I don’t think about how I might be one anyways. That Alis probably wakes up at night with me and lingers awake listening to my suffering. 

## ix. today’s the day

> **MOR (6:01 AM)**
> 
> Today’s the day BITCH.
> 
> **FEYRE (7:43 AM)**
> 
> It’s too early for your happiness.
> 
> Try again later.

Hybern Inc. extends my contract, which is a relief. They pay handsomely for some frivolous, temporary work. My commitment is set for a total of three months now. Perhaps, if I work hard enough, someone will offer me something more permanent. But that’s just wishful thinking. 

> **MOR (10:23 AM)**
> 
> EIGHT HOURS!!!!
> 
> **FEYRE (12:01 PM)**
> 
> Are you this peppy in person?
> 
> I might need to reschedule.
> 
> **MOR (12:02PM)**
> 
> Wow, someone wore her grumpy pants today.
> 
> And yes. Yes, I am.

I don’t see the dark-haired man again. After a while, I forget all about him. I dig into my monotonous work, determined to be useful, even as the creator in me withers and dies. I’d thought that part of me long gone, starved into nonexistence during my tenure at Spring Corp. I guess I was wrong. 

Encouraged by my good mood, I start flipping through the app again. I pay no heed to the fact that I haven’t even met Mor in person. She’s awesome. Even if we do terrible in person and never want to see each other again, I’d be happy with the online friendship we’ve obtained. 

> **MOR (1:30 PM)**
> 
> SEVEN.

I refuse to lapse into what if’s and but’s. For lunch, I curl up in a worn armchair tucked away in a mostly abandoned lounge space. There are several of them throughout the floors we lowly temps have access to, and this one is by far the most out of date. There's one on the other side of this floor with a new Keurig, for example, but I'll sacrifice some single-serve coffee for a little alone time.

> **FEYRE (1:45 PM)**
> 
> You’re impossible.

I approach my task clinically. I do my research thoroughly on each of the faces that pop up onto the screen; I comb through profiles and interests, and I spend way too much time deciding if their self-written bios are pretentious or quirky. I still haven’t checked my biography; I’m too afraid to see what Alis thinks of me.

> **MOR (1:46 PM)**
> 
> :P

Mor’s message interrupts my perusal, and I snicker at the response. It’s clear from my online interactions with her that this girl isn’t afraid to offend or weird out anyone.

“Going somewhere, in particular, Mr. Night?” A cruel voice echoes through the cracked open doorway. My smile drops off my face, and I have the feeling that I’m somewhere where I’m not supposed to be. That voice... doesn't belong to a good person.

“Just for a stroll, Mr. Attor.” This voice is calm, cold. “One that I don’t recall inviting you along for.”

I glance around the room, wishing these office spaces had more than one exit. I don’t want to be caught here, alone; I don’t know why, but some instinct of preservation tells me that the men outside this lounge are not people I want to find myself in the way of.

“A stroll…” The cruel voice repeats. He isn’t asking for clarification. “What possessed you to take a… stroll through the temp’s floor, towards their lounges, at lunch?”

There’s a long pause. I hold my breath.

“What brings _you_ down here, Mr. Attor?” The cold voice is closer than before, too close. “You wouldn’t be looking for me now, would you? Well, congratulations. You found me.”

“Are you looking for Miss Beddor, Mr. Night?” His tone is delighted. Mr. Attor based upon the conversation. “Perhaps for a clandestine inter-office rendezvous?”

Footsteps pause outside the door, and a hand comes to rest on the doorknob, ready to push it open. I can just see the fingers resting there, the owner hidden. Shit.

“I didn’t think you capable of stringing together such impressive vocabulary.” Mr. Night’s voice floats into the room I hide within. It’s familiar, I think, but I couldn’t say from where. “Do you even know the meaning of the words you just said?”

“I,” Mr. Attor stutters at the condescension in his opposition’s tone. I think most people balk when that cold voice is aimed their way; I certainly would.

“Of course, you don’t” Mr. Night cuts him off before he can recover. “You just repeat whatever Amarantha says. Like some kind of parrot—at least parrots are pleasing to the eye.

“Go on now. Report back to your master, bird brain.” The hand retreats from the door. “Rhysand Night seen on the 74TH floor. Believed to be headed to the hourly’s lounge for one of their famously inoffensive sandwiches. He hates it when they serve _foie gras _in the executive’s lounge." The hand disappears then as if the owner of it is checking the time on a much too-expensive watch. "Time: 1:59 PM.”

Great, I’m going to be late returning from lunch. Again.

I strain my ears, listening for the fading footsteps of the men. Satisfied when I no longer hear their acidic bards, I gather my things and creep my way towards the door, fully prepared to leap away at the first sign of danger. I'd prefer it if they never knew I was here or that I overheard their conversation.

I peek out the slightly open door. No one is there; so, I do my best to slip out the door unnoticed. I catch a glimpse of a jet-black suit and another in gray as the two figures, the men I’d wager, disappear around a corner. Satisfied that I won’t be caught eavesdropping on two executive members of Hybern, I hurry back towards the conference room and get back to work, sliding into my seat just before Janice arrives.

I just need to keep my head down and do my work; I don't need any problems. I have enough of my own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do corporate companies like acronyms so much?  
(i work for one. it hurts my head.)
> 
> as it is thanksgiving here, i'd like to say thank you again for all the lovely comments and kudos! they mean a lot. i'll have the next chapter up sometime over the weekend (read: the movies w. mor!!).
> 
> have a lovely day!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre goes to the movies with Mor.

## x. t-minus

I return back to my apartment after work and take a much-needed nap. Alis isn’t home yet, off socializing with some work friends most likely. I haven’t confessed to her that I’m meeting up with someone from the app. It’s probably foolish and unsafe, but there’s this little voice in the back of my head that convinces me it’ll be easier to keep this all to myself, for when it inevitably backfires in my face.

Sleep comes easily, and before I know it, I’m jolting awake at the sound of my alarm, blurry-eyed and confused. Then I remember that I’m meeting Mor for a movie, and I set out to get ready for the evening. Something easier said than done.

I’m filled with a weird combination of excitement and anxiety that leaves my stomach roiling, and I have the destructive urge to cancel the hangout and hide under my comforter instead. _What if she doesn’t like you? What if she thinks you’re weird? What if she can tell how damaged you are? What if she’s mean? What if she’s some creepy dude who catfished you? What if none of it is real?_

My phone chimes before spiral any further and convince myself to go through with canceling.

> **MOR (6:30 PM)**
> 
> T-minus 60 minutes and counting.
> 
> You should know that I’m always on time for a movie if nothing else.
> 
> **FEYRE (6:31 PM)**
> 
> Are you like this with everyone?
> 
> Even practical-strangers?
> 
> **MOR (6:31 PM)**
> 
> Yes, but we’re not strangers.
> 
> I’ve adopted you.

Tears sting my eyes at the kind words. I really hope she isn’t a catfish. If not for the crushing weight of embarrassment that would surely be my demise, I’ll be very, very disappointed.

> **FEYRE (6:35 PM)**
> 
> You should know I’m late for everything. And never where I’m supposed to be. Bad luck, I think.
> 
> **MOR (6:36 PM)**
> 
> *crying laughter gif*
> 
> T-MINUS 54 MINS.

Laughter bubbles in my throat at her antics. Without knowing, Morrigan has managed to renew my confidence and clear away the cloud of doom that forever hangs over my head. But her countdown reminds me that I’m in nothing more than a baggy t-shirt and my underwear. I rush to get dressed, if not presentable, but I think I manage alright. I’ve never been one to fuss over my appearance, even before I lost the will to do so.

#

Despite it being exactly what I wished for, I am horrified to discover that Morrigan lives up to her online profile—and then some. The blonde woman can’t possibly be some sort of PR agent; she looks like she stepped out of one of the movie posters decorating the theater lobby.

I am horrifically under qualified to be her friend. Women like Mor ooze glamor and grace; they’ve mastered the art of the selfie and taking stunning magazine-worthy pictures with their equally good-looking friends. I don’t fall into that category; I’m mousy and too-skinny, frail from a hard few years, afraid of my own shadow.

Imagine my bewilderment when Mor notices me at the door, greets me with a full, warm smile, and rushes me with a bone-cracking hug.

“FEYRE!” The blonde cheers. Her words come out in a rush. “I’m so excited to finally meet you in person! Ohmygosh, I can’t wait to see this movie. Have you watched the trailer? I did, but I don’t think they did the book justice. I…”

Mor rambles, while I catch my breath from her hug. Smiling comes easy as I listen to her weighs the pros and cons of turning a book into a movie. You get to see your favorite book come to life! Hollywood never follows the author’s exact story! Ugly characters are cast with beautiful actors. The dark bits are always glossed over or not done proper justice.

My friend gives me an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just really excited.”

I return the smile with ease. “Me, too.”

## xi. nightcap

“I was worried you were catfishing me,” I tell her later over drinks. Going out afterward had not been originally part of the plan, but something about Morrigan tells me that it's often the case that she makes impulsive changes or additions to any plan.

Mor laughs loudly at my words; people nearby eye her curiously at the open display of emotion. People in the city aren’t that warm and friendly; they’re supposed to be cold and jaded and overworked.

I just grin at her in return. The movie did a pretty good job of capturing the story, but I was left wanting. Hollywood still hasn’t figured out how to portray the inner monologue of a book’s author; it’s different, watching the story from outside the main character’s brain.

Mor, on the other hand, was turning out to be precisely what I predicted. She made me feel welcome with such ease. “Never! Although, I have had a few weird encounters, to be honest. Not me—they were weird. I’m totally normal.”

“Obviously.” My smile is teasing. I manage to keep a straight face until Mor shoves at my arm; I break into laughter. Mor’s cackles return in full force. The drinkers near us, annoyed with our happiness, move to the other side of the bar.

“Look—compared to Mr. Faded T-Shirt and Conspiracy Stories, I’m normal!!” Mor’s voice practically echoes as she defends herself, and I snort, almost shooting my drink out my nose. Gods, that would suck.

“And compared to Miss-Bland-As-A-Blank-Piece-Of-Paper, I’m a fucking gem!” Mor waves her hands in the air.

“Hey, now, someone will find her very interesting one day!” My drinking companion’s scoff is her way of telling me that she disagrees. A lot.

The conversation lulls as we drink, and the bartender slides by, checking to see if we need another round. The young man has been very attentive to Morrigan, face visibly brightening under the force of her smile, but I think it’d be hard for anyone to resist that grin.

“It’s really been that bad before?” I’m horrified by the prospect; I don’t know what I would have done if Morrigan had turned out to be someone else. Gods, I would’ve been mortified. “What did you do?”

“The creepy men are the worse.” Mor wrinkles her nose at some memory. “I usually just tell them to bug off before I make a scene. Always pick a public place, Feyre.”

Mor was delighted to discover that she was my first attempt at this friendship app business. She declared that she would set the bar “impossibly high” and that all of my future endeavors would never compare. I’m surprised by how much I enjoy her ego. Vanity isn’t always so attractive.

“I can’t believe you kept trying after the first time someone wasn’t what you expected,” I tell Morrigan. She sips at her brilliantly pink drink then flashes me a smile.

“You can’t just give up, Fey.” Mor uses the nickname she’s borrowed from Alis during these past few weeks of conversation. It makes me weirdly happy to hear it from her. I’ve never liked nicknames, have only ever let Alis call me by one; they’ve always felt more like taunts than terms of endearment.

“Well, I suppose now you can.” The blonde tells me, mysteriously. Her grin spells trouble. “Because no one will ever be as awesome as me!”

I roll my eyes, fighting off the laughter that threatens. I’ve scrolled through the app a few times, such as this morning at lunch before I was interrupted, but I haven’t had the guts to start talking to anyone new. Even if they all turn out to be “creepy men,” at least I have Mor.

#

I’m walking on cloud nine the whole way back to my apartment. My friend-date went spectacularly if I do say so myself. It seems like ages since I’ve been in such a good mood; hopefully, it’ll last. Mor and I parted ways with promises to make some new plans, but there wasn’t anything concrete. I’m already trying to think of something for us to do next.

“Where on earth have you been?” Alis cries at me when I enter the apartment. It’s late, very late, and based on how Alis is dressed, in pajamas and fuzzy slippers, I can deduce that my roommate has been home for a while. Waiting for me. Not knowing where I had gone.

I feel a wave of guilt. I definitely should have told Alis in advance. It was foolish of me not to. I could have at least texted her after the movie, told her I was going out for drinks. I hadn’t meant to make her worry.

“Uh, I went out for a movie,” I tell her. The apology is evident in my voice.

“Alone?” Alis asks, confused. I’m not codependent by any means, but my best friend knows me well enough to know that I don’t like to see a movie by myself. There’s no one to share the laughs with or the tears.

“No,” I trail off. Now’s the time to own up it would seem. “I went with someone I met… through the app.”

I expected Alis to make fun of me, I think. To laugh at me and tease me for having to make a friend through the internet; never mind the fact that she’s the one who actually signed me up for it. What I do not expect, however, is for Alis to light up like the morning sun.

“Really?” My roommate hops up and down. I remember now that Alis is my favorite person in the world, and that she’d never mock me for finding happiness, whatever the means. “Is that why you’ve been in such a good mood? Oh! Was it the cute guy? _Please _tell me that it was with the cute guy.”

I feel that I should remind her that I gave that man a thumbs down and about our conversation about me not being ready for a cute guy, but I know she means well. Instead, I just say, “No, not him. A girl—Mor. Morrigan. We went to drink afterward; it was fun.”

“Darn,” Alis looks disappointed enough that I have to laugh. My best friend would find Mor _very _attractive. “Well! Tell me everything!”

Alis makes us hot chocolate, and I spike the drinks with the bourbon from the top cabinet. Before long, we’ve curled up together on the couch under a shared blanket, our legs intertwined. I tell her all about the movie and Mor and how I think I’d like to hang out with her again. It’s funny; I feel like I’m talking about the first date. I suppose in a way, I am.

#

That night, I’m haunted by leering stares and predatory chuckles. A firm hand on my arm. _Come with me_. Arms around my waist. _Leave me alone_. A shove. _There you are_. Brick against my back. Eyes the color of the darkening evening sky. _I’ve been looking for you._

I jolt upright. Those eyes were familiar. Now I know from where.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, again, for your lovely comments. They mean a lot! Enjoy some more Rhys-and Mor!

## xii. catch the next one

We waste an entire week folding invitations, addressing them, and dumping them into a mailbag for delivery. It seems like such a ridiculous waste of time and money, printing all of those shiny black and silver invites that are just going to be in the trash in one week.

The Halloween event is this Friday evening. Imagine my surprise when, Monday morning, Janice announces to the temp workers that they’ll be creating the decorations for the event. Horrifically, we’re responsible for creating _everything_: the seat markers, banners, bouquets. It sounds an awful lot like the kind of work an event planner would do. We must be cheaper labor.

I made the mistake of revealing my capabilities with a good ink pen last week; I spent the better part of last Wednesday addressing over two hundred invitations. This week I’m writing down names onto little cards along with one other girl, who’s handwriting is of equal skill to mine. At least I’m being paid.

“Amarantha is on the warpath,” Clare whispers to another associate. She minds after us while Janice is off doing whatever it is precisely she does. “I don’t know what I possibly could have done to make her an enemy.”

The other girl shrugs, appearing only slightly sympathetic to Clare’s problems. “Just keep your head down,” she suggests to Clare, “things will blow over soon enough. She’s probably just having problems with that boyfriend of hers; they’ll go to the party this Friday, have some makeup sex, and she’ll forget all about whatever rumors are flying about you and him.”

“I just don’t understand how these rumors started!” Clare bemoans. She’s spent the better part of her workdays lately lamenting about her problems. I can’t help but recall the way she spoke at lunch about how she’d date the guy even if it got her into trouble. Apparently, his being in a relationship is not a deterrent either. I wonder if HR is at all concerned about this guy’s dating habits.

Janice enters before Clare can really get into it, and we all keep our heads down, working on our tasks until the lunch hour comes around.

#

At lunch, I return to the friend app. Mor has “requested my presence” for a karaoke night on Friday, but she wants to know if I’m free for coffee the day after tomorrow morning. I consent to both—under the condition that under no uncertain circumstances am I to be expected to sing.

> **MOR (1:12 PM)**
> 
> Boo! I bet your voice is lovely.
> 
> **Feyre (1:15 PM)**
> 
> It’s not. I promise.
> 
> **MOR (1:16 PM)**
> 
> Liar.
> 
> **FEYRE (1:20 PM)**
> 
> Don’t you have work to do?
> 
> **MOR (1:21 PM)**
> 
> Gods, not you too!

I laugh loudly at the response. It’s very Mor. I have a while still before my lunch hour is over; so, I decide to seek out the coffee cart on the street. Supposedly, we have one around here as well, but Suriel, the sassy coffee cart girl, likes to travel around. It seems unfortunate for business to make her customers hunt for her and her coffee, but whatever floats her boat.

Hybern owns one of those buildings with too many elevators. I hit a button to go upstairs, fiddling with the app while I wait. According to the LED above the metal doors, all four lifts are currently resting on the first floor—lovely. I must be the only person in the building who stayed for lunch.

Mor is either busy or waiting for me to say something else—probably the former if I’ve learned anything about my new friend. So, I start to flip through profiles.

**Cassian (Cass)**

Age 26, Prythian

_I drink massive amounts of coffee, love anything ridiculous or bizarre, and will shamelessly talk about the meaningless things my dog does for hours._

That’s all there is — no likes or dislikes, except for the ones provided by the app’s preprogrammed quiz. I wonder how many people have given the guy a thumbs up just for the chance to meet the giant dog in the profile picture. I click the image to see it better; pictured beside the mastiff-looking dog is an equally large and attractive man, wearing a positively sly smile.

I click thumbs up on a whim.

Then the elevator chimes, and I put away my phone. I find elevators stressful, always have, but the incident in the alley has only seemed to amplify my fear. Odd that it had nothing to do with an elevator.

What I find in there makes me consider taking the stairs for the rest of my miserable life.

I’m horrified at the sight of a woman with thick, red hair pressing up against a tall, black-suited man, her fingers wrapped up in his dark hair. This is definitely not office appropriate behavior, and I wish now that I’d just gone and sought out Suriel. She doesn't seem like the type to hook up at work, but she'll definitely give you the lowdown on Hybern gossip.

Maybe, I can bolt for it. The couple is way too preoccupied with each other to notice me, embarrassed and running for the hills. Yet, I find myself frozen to the spot, watching as the couple shares a decidedly dirty kiss, all teeth, and tongue.

The woman drags her mouth along the curve of her lover’s neck; he arches his neck to allow her more space to work, humming in agreement. Until that is, he notices that they’ve stopped moving, that the doors are open. Shit. I start to back away, not wanting to be caught like some sort of pervert, ogling two strangers making out.

Brilliant blue eyes latch onto mine.

I freeze again as recognition zings between the two of us. It’s him, the man who saved me from the creeps in the alley. I never saw him again, but he’s here, standing in front of me, with a beautiful, curvy woman wrapped around him. Horror stains his expression for an instant, then vanishes, hidden away behind a smug expression. I must make some choked noise; distantly, I hear it even if it sounds too far away to be coming from me.

Sensing the mood change, the woman peels herself away from him, turning to face me. Her eyes are cruel things, the color of sharply cut emeralds, smile lethal. Despite her smudged lipstick, the woman makes me feel small and insecure, without having to say a word. She's someone important; they both are. I don't need to know the brands of their designer clothes to confirm it.

“Am…” The man calls after his lover, warningly, but he remains the perfect picture of male arrogance, hands tucked into his pockets, and a wrinkled, unbuttoned black shirt. A smug tilt of the lips tells the world that he’s pleased with having been caught at something naughty. My heart pounds at the sight of him; my blood goes cold as the woman slinks in my direction.

“Catch the next one,” the woman says, hitting a button and urging the doors closed. She returns back to her earlier ministrations, having dismissed me, but my former rescuer’s eyes are still glued to me. _Am’s_ lipstick stains his mouth.

I snatch my gaze away from his, bolting away from the waiting area before the doors can fully close.

## xiii. friendship

“And then he says,” Morrigan’s voice rises in frustration, mid-rant. Her voice carries in the quiet morning hour as she tells me her story, face red with emotion and hands waving about. Then her voice drops low, mockingly, “_How was your sleepover?_”

“Ugh,” I roll my eyes in commiseration; I already know where this is going. My support only encourages my friend further, but I’m learning that it doesn’t take much to incite Mor.

“So, I ask: sleepover? For clarification, of course, because we _both_ know that he’s downplaying what’s actually going on by, like, dismissing it like a _regular ol’ friendship _between two girls,” Mor stops to take a breath, sipping at her coffee with fervor. I see the moment that the overly sweetened liquid scalds her tongue. “Shit! That’s hot.”

“Coffee usually is,” I say, grinning when she shoots me an unamused glare.

"Anyways!” Mor returns to her rant, anger renewed with a burst of caffeine. “He’s all: _your sleepover with that _friend_ of yours. How was it?_”

It’s my personal opinion that the octave her voice reaches should be impossible considering Mor’s normal lilt. We’re walking towards the business district, enjoying a warmer Autumn day. All of Prythian is out in it, knowing the temperature change is unlikely to last. I’m somewhat surprised by how close Mor’s office is to Hybern’s tower; we were so close to each other all along.

“So, I look him dead in his patronizing eyes, and I tell him: It went great, Dad! I came _four times._”

I choke on my coffee, ill-prepared for where her story was headed. Morrigan cackles at my misfortune, patting me half-heartedly, and waving off a few concerned passersby. The liquid burns in my lungs, where it isn’t supposed to be, and tears spring at the corners of my eyes.

“You did _not_ say that,” I accuse, rasping. Mor shrugs. “To your _dad?_”

“Honestly, I think the idea of me getting naked with a woman bothers him more than the actual idea of me getting naked for sex in general does,” Mor sips at her coffee, thoughtful. “He always pretends to be oblivious about what is going on when I bring women around, but the second I have my arm around some dude in a suit, he’s totally invested.”

I cringe. I hate that Mor has to live with that kind of behavior from her father. I hate that anyone has to live like that at all. “But you still, you work for him?”

“With. Technically.” The blonde corrects. Her face darkens noticeably as she considers her explanation. “And it’s… complicated. A stupid kind of complicated, but it is what it is.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, lacking a better response.

Like the passing of an eclipse, Morrigan’s face transforms, reverting back to her usual, hyper self. She flips her hair over one shoulder and adjusts her shades on her nose. I’m insanely jealous of the way she wears a trench coat paired with a simple pair of dark wash jeans and looks utterly capable of running the world. I barely feel capable of running my own life, dressed in a pair of tapered slacks and a blue button-up.

“New topic!” Mor is many things, but subtle is not one of them. “Tell me about this contract of yours. Who are they? What do they do? What do you do? Do they pay well? Do you get to flirt with anyone _cute_?”

I roll my eyes at her antics. Morrigan is _very_ concerned with my flirting. “Sadly, the only flirting I am getting these days comes from you.”

Mor clutches at her heat, the drama queen. “Fey-fey! Don’t lead me on this way! You’re breaking my heart.”

I give her a shove; Mor bursts into laughter as she searches for her balance on those four-inch heels. “Hey!” I say aloud. “There’s an idea: let’s go introduce me to your father. We can tell him we’re getting married and are going to adopt an outrageous amount of equally open-minded children. He’ll love it!”

Mor cackles, throwing her head back. It’s a marvelous thing to see someone laugh so freely.

“Keep making promises like that, Feyre, and I’m going to have to buy you a ring!” Mor shoots me a grin, a promise in the wicked smile. I don’t doubt that she would do just that.

We’ve arrived at Hybern’s doorstep at last. I sigh, sad to part ways with Mor and end a particularly beautiful morning, but I definitely can’t be late. Janice has it out for me in particular, primarily because I’m always arriving late. I don’t know how to explain to her that I was born under a cursed star. I don’t think HR would accept the excuse anyway.

“Well,” I drag out the word. “This is me!”

Mor stops short of the enormous building and its shadows. Her chocolate eyes take in the tinted windows and steel with no modest amount of suspicion. “Here?”

Her tone surprises me. “Yeah, why?”

The disbelief shines on her face; she must be terrible at poker. I watch in disbelief as that dark cloud from before rolls back in, deepening the lines of her face and making her frown. Mor looks back at the building, then back towards me.

“Is something wrong?” I prompt, worried.

“No!” But the words come from her much to quickly to be anything convincing. “Uh, no. I just—I knew someone. Someone who worked here. That’s all. Don’t worry about it.”

“Someone you used to flirt with?” I wiggle my eyebrows at her for emphasis, trying to regain the playfulness from half an hour ago.

Mor doesn’t smile. “No, not like that. They—we were close, good friends.”

The implication is there, written in between the lines. Unspoken and, yet, clear as day. Her best friend.

“Oh,” I lose all of the lightheartednesses from this morning. “What happened?”

“It’s—complicated.” The blonde flashes me an apologetic smile. I won’t press her to explain anything to me that she doesn’t want to. It would be hypocritical at best.

“Just… Be safe up there, Feyre.” Morrigan eyes me worriedly. “There are all kinds of monsters lurking in that building.”

Cruel, green eyes flash in my memory.

“After all,” Mor adds, a flash of the feisty woman I’ve become so fond of returning. “Literally, _nothing_ is going to get you out of karaoke night. _Nothing._ Not even: _my evil witch of a boss turned me into a frog_.”

“Wow, okay. I’ll make sure it’s a slug then.”

Mor breaks into that cackle again. We part on better, if strange terms. I promise to talk to her later, and she promises to break any curses I might get stuck with. A true friend.

_Be safe, Feyre. _

_Be safe, Clare. _

What’s going on in this place that I don’t know about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cassian's bio is 100% stolen from the internet and adjusted to suit my needs. I am unashamed.


	8. Chapter 8

## xiv. conscription

During lunch, I hide away upstairs for the rest of the week. I don’t dare risk another chance encounter with the man—or the woman; instead, I spend the rest of the week afraid of my own shadow, jumping at the sound of someone suddenly behind me or scurrying past dark halls or alleys. It’s not too different from before, back when I first came to live with Alis. I was jumping at everything then, too.

But now, I worry about running into that couple, of what I might find when the elevator doors open. It’s silly, really; I mean, what are the odds I stumble across them in the elevator again? And rationally, I’m well aware that the only people who should feel embarrassed about what happened are the culprits themselves. Yet, I’m smart enough to recognize that they’re not the kind of people, with their cruel eyes and expensive clothes, I want to find myself in the path of.

So, I squirrel myself away in the empty lunchroom, eating my Lunchables and scrolling through news articles, passing the time.

> **CASSIAN (yesterday @ 8:09PM)**
> 
> Yo!
> 
> **FEYRE (today @ 10:02AM)**
> 
> Yo? Is that the best you can come up with?
> 
> **CASSIAN (today @ 11:01AM)**
> 
> _Cassian sent an image. [pic]_
> 
> **FEYRE (today @ 12:00PM)**
> 
> Damn. That IS a cute dog.

Someone clears their throat pointedly. I look up from my desk to find Janice staring daggers at me; making a show of being guilty, I apologize, but our warden seems utterly unaffected by it. I’d like to point out to her all of the times I’ve seen her take personal calls on the company phone at her desk, but somehow I don’t think that will get me out of my trouble.

“We don’t pay you to text your friends, Ms. Archeron,” Janice sneers, voice haughty. “Perhaps, you can make it up to me by volunteering to work the Samhain Gala tonight. I’ll need some help getting things ready.”

I have plans to go to Karaoke Night with Mor tonight, and I try to say as much but am cut off with a stern look.

“Be there by six to get everything into place,” Janice says. Our day at the office ends promptly at 5PM; it gives me barely an hour to go home, eat dinner, and make it to the venue across town. I guess I could grab something on the go.

“The event doesn’t even start until eight.” I know I’m complaining, but Janice brings out something childish in me. My superior just shrugs, indifferent; her tawny eyes look me up and down critically.

“You’ll need to change into something more—_acceptable_, and I expect you to stay through the entirety of the event. Otherwise, we may need to consult HR about your use of work time. See how that affects your contract.” Janice walks away before I can offer a rebuttal, leaving me behind with my mouth wide open.

I want to ask about the party planners; what is this company even paying those louts for? Instead, I brood through the rest of the morning shift, dying to whip out my phone and call Alis to complain. Or to text a lengthy rant to Mor. My friend is going to be positively furious about this.

At lunch, I break the news to Mor. The conversation is a series of rapid-fire texts.

> **FEYRE (@1:13PM)**
> 
> I have to cancel. :(
> 
> **MOR (@1:14PM)**
> 
> NO! :’(
> 
> KAROAKE!!!!
> 
> I promise not to make you sing!!!!
> 
> **FEYRE (@1:20PM)**
> 
> I know! I’m really upset about it.
> 
> But I’ve been conscripted to decorate for some stupid gala.
> 
> I tried to get out of it, but it was made clear to me that it wasn’t optional.
> 
> I don’t want them to terminate my contract. 
> 
> **MOR (@1:20PM)**
> 
> They can’t do that! Send me your contract ASAP.
> 
> I’ll sick my lawyer on them. She’s scarier than any of those a-holes!
> 
> **FEYRE (@1:26PM)**
> 
> Nah, I’ll be okay. But now I need to figure out how to get a dress.
> 
> I basically have to go there right after work. I’ll never manage to find one during lunch.
> 
> You have a lawyer? Like on call?
> 
> Have I told you I love you?
> 
> **MOR (@1:27PM)**
> 
> Easy, girl. I’m taken.
> 
> **FEYRE (@1:28PM)**
> 
> ????????????
> 
> Since when?
> 
> **MOR (@1:29PM)**
> 
> ;)

Morrigan leaves me hanging. Last, we’d spoken on the matter, my friend made it very clear that she was on the market. The more I get to know her, the less I believe she’s the type to settle down with someone at all. At least, not for the long term. Mor is very clearly a free spirit, unwilling to tie herself down, but quick to jump into something headfirst. Yet, I suppose, who really knows, until they know.

I finish my food and dawdle on my phone. Until working in these offices in the business district, I’d never realized how long a full hour for lunch was. Before, I’d only ever worked crappy retail jobs and food service, which only allowed for thirty-minute breaks if even that. I thought anyone who was blessed with a _whole hour_ had basically made it in life.

Now, I wish I could just go back to work, finish my day, and head home.

> **MOR (@1:55PM)**
> 
> What floor do you work on?

I hesitate to answer her. Images of Morrigan charging into Hybern, a Queen arrived to wage war on her enemies, swirls in my brain. She must guess my worries.

> **MOR (@1:57PM)**
> 
> Promise not to show up. Though I am tempted!!!
> 
> Well?

I answer her, if only because I’m curious as to why she’s asking.

> **FEYRE (@1:59PM)**
> 
> 12th.
> 
> Why?

The terror just sends me back a smiley emoji in response. It does not make me feel any less concerned.

## xv. a gift

No one is more confused than I am when a package arrives for me, delivered right to our floor by a courier, their face flushed from the cold. Security tries to stop them from entering the level—gods forbid that they might learn the top-secret color scheme of black and silver for our gala tonight—but the courier insists that they are to deliver the package _directly into Feyre Archeron’s hands._

The young man looks relieved to see me when I arrive at the front desk. I don’t believe that he recognizes who I am but instead is happy to see a kind face in the sea of stern expressions before him.

“Feyre?” He glances at something on his phone and back to me, confirming. Maybe I was wrong. Does—does this guy have a picture of me? “I was ordered to give this directly to you.”

He holds the box in his arms out to me, hands trembling under the heavy gaze of the burly security guard. Ben is actually a charming guy; although one wouldn’t know it by looking at him, he’s always my first pick to get escorted out if we have to stay late.

“Oh—thanks.” I accept the package and sign the papers he presents. “Uh, who is it from?”

The man gives me a boyish smile, shaggy brown hair falling into his face. After taking back the signed papers, he slips me a small white card. His eyes twinkle like we’re sharing some grand secret.

“You’re prettier in person,” the courier tells me with a playful wink, and then he’s off, disappearing back towards the elevators. Sly devil.

“Wh-what?” I share a look with Ben, but he just shrugs at me. Very helpful.

A creeping dread slinks its way into my bones, causing my heart to race with fear. I walk back to my cubicle on auto-pilot, sifting through all of the possible senders. _He_ used to send me things all of the time, trinkets and flowers, and sugary-sweet notes.

_Is it him? Has he found me? What do I do? Where can I go? How did he find me? How did he find me? How did he _find me_?_

I rip the note open with shaking hands, desperate to know and terrified of being right.

> _Since you won’t allow me to come to your aid with lawyers, I decided to aid you in a different way. Don’t send it back, or I’ll never forgive you. Ever. _
> 
> _(FYI, I’ll have you know that I make a seriously hot knight-in-shining-armor.)_
> 
> _Shit, everything I say to you sounds like I’m hitting on you. Alas._
> 
> _I’m going to stop while I’m ahead. Or behind. Gods._
> 
> _-Mor_

I laugh loudly, even as tears sting my eyes, vestiges of my panic. I can feel the watchful eyes of a few of my fellow coworkers, but I decide to ignore them. Janice can come breath her fire on me for all I care. The workday has a matter of minutes left in it. At least as long as you aren’t me.

I decide not to attract too much attention to myself and seek refuge in the bathroom. Janice has left for the day it would seem, likely sneaking out while I retrieved Mor’s gift from the courier. Figures. This kind of thing is probably the highlight of her year, getting to dress up and rub elbows with people in the company who have more power than her.

The bathroom, like most of the building, is empty now. I tear into the package—and pull out a swath of silvery sequined fabric.

> **FEYRE (@4:42PM)**
> 
> What. The. Fuck.
> 
> MOR
> 
> **MOR (@ 4:42PM)**
> 
> Oh gods.
> 
> You hate it.
> 
> I’m usually so good at these things.
> 
> **FEYRE (@ 4:43PM)**
> 
> No! It’s amazing. But it’s too much!!!
> 
> You have to take it back!

I set down the phone to fluff out the dress, the gown, and take a better look. My phone starts to chime, quick and fast. Definitely, Mor. I hang the dress on a nearby stall and retrieve my phone.

> **MOR (@ 4:44PM)**
> 
> Don’t worry there’s still time. I can fix it.
> 
> Wait. You do?????
> 
> I will not.
> 
> **FEYRE (@4:45PM)**
> 
> There’s no way I can let you buy this for me.
> 
> I’ll pay you back!
> 
> **MOR (@ 4:45PM)**
> 
> Shut up and wear the dress.
> 
> Knock their socks off!
> 
> Fuck you, JANICE.

My snort echoes in the bathroom, and even knowing I’m alone, I still glance around, looking for witnesses. I glance back at the dress where it hangs, observing the shiny fabric; it certainly goes with the theme. I wonder how she knew. Did I tell her? I’ll never admit it for fear of encouraging Morrigan, but this is much better than the simple black sheath, worn and a little tired, I was planning to throw on back home.

> **MOR (@ 4:52PM)**
> 
> Well???? Did you try it on yet?
> 
> **FEYRE (@ 4:53PM)**
> 
> Wow, so quick to get me INTO clothes.
> 
> **MOR (@ 4:54PM)**
> 
> BAHAHAHA! You’re still my hetero-wife.
> 
> Where’s my picture!!!!????

I roll my eyes at her message, smiling as I drag myself and the dress into an empty stall. Excitement fills me at the prospect of wearing something so finely made, and I try very hard not to focus on how much this must have cost Mor. I step into the strappy heels provided for me, leaving me wondering how Morrigan could have possibly guessed both my dress size _and_ my shoe size. The woman must surely be made of magic.

I snap a picture, can’t resist making a ridiculous face to go along with it. Then hit send.

> **MOR**
> 
> *bowing gif*
> 
> Yas Queen!
> 
> **FEYRE**
> 
> You’re ridiculous.
> 
> **MOR**
> 
> I’d pay money to see Janice’s face when she sees you!!!
> 
> **FEYRE**
> 
> You don’t even know this woman.
> 
> **MOR**
> 
> I don’t need to. You hate her. So do I.
> 
> AHH. YOU LOOK SO GOOD. I’M SO PROUD.

I have to admit, I agree with her. The silver gown drapes across my curves, slowly returning with each passing day. I’ve filled in as of late, having eaten more and had fewer vomit-inducing nightmares. There’s any number of things to credit for this change in appetite: Alis’s constant support, a steady if annoying job, Mor’s conquer-the-world attitude, or even simply just—time.

From the front, the gown is a modest thing. The neckline reaches high, covering my collarbones and sweeping down over my shoulders; the length hits the floor, and I make a note to lift the thing off the ground on my way to the gala. The sleeves are long, appropriate for the chilly weather, and tapering into a snug fit at my wrists.

The fabric itself is of another world. It’s all silvery silk covered in a thousand, tiny, sparkling stars. It’s _gorgeous._

My phone chimes again.

> **MOR**
> 
> WHAT’S THE BACK LOOK LIKE?


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre makes her way to the Halloween Gala, but she runs into some coworkers on the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for my rogue updating. This one is shorter, so I thought I'd get it posted.

## xvi. elevators

If the floor was empty before, it’s positively deserted now. Ben is still there, nearing the end of his shift with each passing moment. His eyes glimmer with something like surprise, and maybe a little bit pride, but the security guard says nothing to me other than to have a goodnight.

I make it to the elevators without being stopped, and I get on alone. However, my luck appears to run out when the elevator slows to a stop on the fiftieth floor. I don’t even know what is on this floor. I’m flooded with irrational paranoia, nervous at the idea of being stuck in a metal, falling box with a stranger. I suddenly feel self-conscious about my dress.

My anxiety gets so much worse as the doors open, and I see the dark-haired man from the alleyway, from that _other_ time at the elevators. I can’t stop my body’s urge to flush with heat; I’m embarrassed by the memory of seeing him as he was that day with the woman. His head tipped back in pleasure; shirt plucked open to his navel. Miles of tanned skin just on display in a public place.

Maybe Mor is right. I do need to find someone at the office to flirt with. Just not him.

No, _definitely_ not with him. The man in front of me is darkness incarnate; he radiates trouble. I picture his girlfriend’s twisted gaze.

Those blue eyes widen with recognition similar to the last time he saw me, our situations reversed. That sharp gaze sweeps over me, drinking in my curves—exposed in a way I would typically never be at work, dressed in my bland business clothes, repurposed from a Goodwill, and barely fitting. I’m probably harder to recognize this time; dressed in such beautiful clothes and my hair let loose, I certainly _feel_ like I’m someone other than myself.

“Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” I snap at him without thinking first. Shit. I steel myself for his counterattack, turn my expression to ice. Pray, he doesn’t notice the way my hand grasps the railing.

His smile could cut through diamonds.

“Would you let me, darling?” He prowls into the lift, crowding into my space without hesitation. “Let me take a picture?” His expression is sinister as his eyes rake across me with a vengeance; I have to repress a shiver. “Could we do one without the dress, though? Lovely as it is?”

I lift my chin, meet his disrespect with my own. “Prick.”

Amused. He looks amused by me — insufferable bastard.

The elevator starts to move again, unconcerned with the showdown happening within. The sudden shift into motion causes the man to sway, ever so slightly into what’s left of my personal space. It’s a struggle to fight off the instinct to recoil at his nearness.

I think he notices if the way he adjusts his posture is any indication. The man, this coworker of mine, slinks away to the corner of the elevator, giving me space; he leans against the wall with indifference, like some kind of male modeling advertisement. When he catches me staring, he winks, and mortified, I avert my eyes quickly, blushing like mad.

I think I hate this man. My rescuer. An almost friend.

When the elevator stops again, I can’t decide if it’s mercy or not to welcome someone else into the space.

Another man enters the elevator, not even bothering to hide the way his greedy eyes check me out. Disgusted, I shudder. He opens his mouth to say something to me, likely something terrible, but his eyes fall on my company before he manages to get them out.

“Rhysand,” he greets instead; he genuinely sounds surprised. “I’m shocked to see you free of your ball and chain. Have you caught something new for the evening? Is this the one we’ve heard all about?”

_Rhysand. _Rhysand? As in Rhysand Night? The man from the hallway last week, the one that that horrid Mr. Attor was stalking. _Report back to your master._ Clandestine inter-office rendezvous. _Are you looking for Miss Beddor, Mr. Night?_ Oh hell. I’m never getting on another elevator again.

My gaze strays to Rhysand’s without permission; there’s something that looks suspiciously like concern shining in his eyes. It disappears in a flash so quick that I don’t believe our new addition even notices.

_You just repeat whatever it is Amarantha says. _Is that Am, the woman from the elevator? Is Rhysand afraid that word will get to her about his being in an elevator with me? Gods, is this guy going to send that horrifying redhead after me next? Accuse Rhysand of some sort of disloyalty? No. Thank. You.

Rhysand’s next words drip with scorn. “Hardly. She’s not my type.”

His words make me reel with rejection, even as I grow angry at how they hold a conversation about me as if I’m not there.

“Why on earth not?” The other guy eyes me with incredulity. His expression is completely transformed from leech to curiosity. Like maybe I’m hiding some weird deformity that he cannot see. An extra finger or toe or my voice is funny—

What I am not expecting is for Rhysand to say: “This one would never let me do all my favorite wicked things to her.”

I scoff loudly, disgust plain on my face. Rhysand’s friend gives me another once over with renewed interest. “Well, I’ve never met a woman I couldn’t get to loosen up in the bedroom, Rhysand.”

My blood boils at his nerve, at the both of them. Two men talking about me like I’m cattle, just a piece of meat to lay claim on. Eris continues, oblivious, “Perhaps, I ought to give her a try—”

“Level 32, didn’t you say, Eris?” Rhysand pointedly hits the button for the next floor; obediently, the elevator comes to a stop, lurching at the unexpected command. Rhysand slides his eyes to his companion. The warning rings clear: _get off_.

Eris eyes him carefully, sizing up the threat, but he must not like whatever he finds in those cold blue eyes. Eris looks me over one more time, trying to put the puzzle together. I fear that I’ve gained more interest from him, now that Rhysand has come to my defense.

“Quick now, or I’ll have to shove you out,” Rhys purrs, hands in his pocket and head tilted predatorily.

Eris accepts his dismissal with a cunning smile in my direction. As he steps off the elevator, I feel like a bunny that’s been spotted by a fox.

The rest of the elevator ride is in agonizing silence. I count the floors as we go, trying to soothe my racing heart. _30, 29, 28… 15, 14, 13… _

“Your name isn’t Clare Beddor.” Rhysand’s voice is like raw silk, casual, and indifferent. He makes the statement as if it’s something he’s only just detected, arbitrarily one day, but the fact that he knows I lied tells me he’s been looking for me. I think of how Clare was called upstairs, of how he was lurking on our floor during lunch.

_8, 7, 6…_

“No,” I confirm. My heart races in my chest as I turn my head to the side, sending him what I hope is a contemptuous sneer. “It isn’t.”

_3, 2, 1. _Ding.

The elevator chimes as it opens, and I do my best impression of Mor, sweeping away out the door as if I couldn’t be bothered with completing the conversation. I’m gratified when I hear the little hitch in my stranger’s breathing as he catches sight of the best part of the gown.

Or rather, the lack of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole "You're not Clare," moment has been circling in my brain forever, and it wouldn't let me go; so, here we are. Basically, this whole gala business was my excuse to get Feyre into that dress and on the elevator with Rhys. *shrugs* 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it anyway!
> 
> Up next: Feyre goes to the gala.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gala.

## xvii. the only one

I manage to keep up the appearance, head held high, and long, confident strides until I'm outside of the building. As soon as the doors swing shut behind me, I scurry away from Hybern Tower like it might send its hellhounds after me any second. The last thing I want to happen is for Rhysand to catch up with me or for any other spy to see that man paying me any special attention. No, I'd like to stay free of that trouble if possible.

I weave through the hustle and bustle of the evening crowd feeling like Cinderella, except I've lost my coat rather than my shoe. It's alright, though; I barely feel the sting of the cold air as I rush down the icy street, my anger at the elevator ride helping to keep me warm. There's more than a few double-takes as I run, people surprised at my dress or harried expression. One little girl yells after me: _Mommy! It's a princess!_

Gods, if I'm late to that snobby gala, Janice will surely figure out how to have me fired. Although, I'm starting to wonder if it wouldn't be such a bad idea to just quit and be done with it; my contract is nearly over anyway, and the temp agency can always reassign me early. I'll never land another gig as lucky as this one, though.

The ritzy conference center that Hybern has laid it claim upon is deadly silent when I arrive. I pause at the doors, checking, either way, to make sure that I haven't ended up in the wrong place, but the sign I spent an entire day painting rests upon an easel right by the lobby desk. _The Samhain Charity Gala, Hosted by Hybern Inc., _glimmers back at me in metallic silver, set against a pure black.

I’m in the right place, but no one else is.

I ask the first server I see to point me in the direction of a woman named Janice. The girl eyes me with outright suspicion and jealousy; I can’t say I blame her. I remember those days, serving the rich for some spare cash in between my regular jobs. The people dress like her get treated like dirt by the people dressed like-like me. “There’s no one else here, just you. You’re too early.”

At first, the meaning of her words escapes me, and then they fill me with a quiet rage. It kindles the embers of emotion I felt back at Hybern not so long ago, getting sized up by a pair of rich me. I think of the way Morrigan rushed out to get me this dress when she didn't have to, of the leering gazes of Rhysand and Eris in the elevator, of my empty stomach, of how I nearly tripped and died running over here, too stubborn to pay for a taxi for a few blocks.

“No one else is here?” There’s no mistaking the girl’s flinch; my voice is cold and cruel, hiding the anger I feel. I blew off one of my only two friends to be here—and Janice isn’t even _here_.

“Nope,” the girl pops the p, walks away without another word. Brave thing.

In reflection, I’m unsurprised to find that Janice left me to do all of the work. Of course, she’d use me to get out of having to get her hands dirty; it's what she uses the lot of us for any other day. For a while, I stand there at the entrance to the party. I listen to the plucking of an instrument as a musician tweaks their tuning; I use the discordant notes to help reel in my emotions; I cannot lose it on the people who sign my check.

Instead of freaking out, I get to work. I double-check the placement of things, and I’m happy to discover that the planners did do a lot of the work, making the need for my presence mostly just a charade created to inconvenience me. A power play for Janice. All that is left if for someone to work on the finishing details. If I’m going to be responsible for something, I’m going to make sure the work is flawless.

Unlike the first girl, I ran into, the rest of the staff is friendly and helpful. Belatedly I realize they think I’m of importance; Mor’s gift is making quite the impression. Clare Beddor arrives at some point and takes over the show, and I’m happy to let her do the majority of the talking. At the sight of my dress, much more elegant than hers, she raises a brow, but Clare remains silent on the matter. Saving the gossip for Monday, I imagine.

It is my understanding that those on the invite list-names I've spent tedious hours scrawling onto envelopes-are donors for some fundraising event hosted by Hybern; they're all coming to this event, dressed in their finest, to gloat about it. The whole thing makes me think of the hundreds of dinners, ones just like this, that I’ve suffered my way through; they looked just like this: wealthy people boasting of their charity while paying minimum wage to the people attending to their whims. I’ve been on both sides of that coin.

I’m not sure where I stand tonight, dressed to the nines but here to serve.

> **FEYRE (6:34 PM)**
> 
> Janice isn’t even here.
> 
> It’s just me and her lackey.
> 
> The decorations are basically done.
> 
> **MOR (6:35 PM)**
> 
> I can be there in half an hour.
> 
> Say the word.

I have to smile at her loyalty. Given now that I’ve learned how much she distrusts Hybern, her history with the company, Mor’s offer holds such meaning. She’d willingly put herself in an uncomfortable situation to make me happy.

> **FEYRE (6:40 PM)**
> 
> You don’t have an invitation.
> 
> **MOR (6:41 PM)**
> 
> Don’t need one.
> 
> My family can get in anywhere.
> 
> **FEYRE (6:46 PM)**
> 
> Who ARE you?

I’ve gathered that Mor’s family held some prestige, but to be able to just crash a party like this… Morrigan comes from something important. I swallow back the feelings of inadequacy.

> **MOR (6:48 PM)**
> 
> My family is old money. NBD.
> 
> I prefer using my evil powers for good.
> 
> So? Need your knight in shining armor?
> 
> **FEYRE (6:52 PM)**
> 
> Tempting. But standby.
> 
> I’ve gotta put my big girl pants on tonight, I think.
> 
> **MOR (6:53 PM)**
> 
> Just say the word!
> 
> I love make old billy goats nervous by showing up where I wasn’t invited!
> 
> **FEYRE (6:54 PM)**
> 
> <3

When the suits start to arrive, I’m surprised at how well I can blend amongst them while playing gopher. _We need some _. _I get it for them. _Where are the _? _I show them the way. At one point, someone mistakes me for being a wife, and I laugh through the pang of old dread. It’s something I almost really was: someone’s Wife, my sole title, right, and role. It feels like another lifetime ago.

Time passes quickly, but I’m too busy to notice. I catch myself periodically scanning the room and checking over my shoulder, and at first, I think I’m afraid to run into Rhysand or his buddy, Eris, again. Then I catch a flash of blonde hair out of the corner of my eye, and I realize I’m hiding from my old familiar ghosts, not the new ones.

Yet, the only familiar face in the room is Amarantha’s, COO of Hybern. She oozes charisma in a lacey black number that leaves little to the imagination. She's absolutely stunning, and she's alone. Rhysand is nowhere to be seen, and based upon the whispers I overhear while stealing canapes, he's missed. Yet, you'd never know that by looking at Hybern's Second in Command, the woman works the floor with ease, charming donors out of more money and somehow making it seem like it was their idea all along. It’s hard to fathom why she would be so concerned with the charity work; the woman I saw on the elevator didn’t seem like the type.

I have a feeling Amarantha doesn’t seem like a lot of things, but she is them—and more. I’ve known her type before, called them a friend; I won’t be making the same mistake twice. Not that I think I’ll have such an opportunity with the smiling redhead holding court by the back. I’m barely on the woman’s radar, and that is precisely how I intend to keep things.

## xviii. the real monsters

“I was hoping I’d find you here.”

To say I jump out of my skin would be an understatement; I practically launch into space, jolting with surprise. I'd been so focused on my work on cleaning up the absolute mess the guests have left behind. The flower arrangement I hold jostles in my hands, and I lose a few of the flowers from the vase, splashing the water about. I’m lucky none of it got onto my beautiful dress.

I recognize that voice. I hate that I know his voice.

Rhysand Night looks positively elated to have startled me, utterly unapologetic in an elegant tux and smoothy swept-back hair. His blue eyes sparkle with amusement; when I growl at him in anger, the corners of his mouth quirk up too, lighting up his face. I hold my glare. Clare slips diligently between us to take the vase from my hands, eyeing us carefully but not saying anything. Still, Rhysand sends her a disarming smile, and Clare ducks her head and walks away, flushing to her ears.

“What do you want?” I snap, angry at myself for giving him the satisfaction of knowing he has any effect on me. I won the round in the elevator, but I think we’re tied now.

“You see, I was wondering what could possibly be going on this evening that would have you so jazzed up,” he drawls, giving my dress another appreciative sweep. Rhysand completely ignores my question in favor of his monologue. “Then I remembered something important: we were throwing a party tonight. A very fancy, worthy-of-_that_-dress party.”

He smirks at me, and I get the impression he wants me to be proud of his deduction skills, that he managed to find me. I just roll my eyes and pick up the scattered flowers Clare left behind, reaching for the next vase. The partygoers have mostly cleared out now, except for the few that wandered away with Amarantha, but Clare and I are on cleanup duty, remaining with the rest of the paid help.

Except for Rhysand, apparently.

“But that left me wondering why _you_ would go to the party,” Rhysand is not deterred by my glare; he doesn't appear to mind the offense his words might bring. I think he takes great joy in ruffling everyone's feathers. “Amarantha _never_ brings the lowlings to her parties. Except to do her dirty work. But—that still doesn’t explain the _dress_.”

“Well, I like to wear my best stuff when I clean up after pretentious pricks,” I tell him, reaching for another vase. I wonder how many of these I can realistically carry without ruining the fashionable garment.

He chuckles, “I thought, perhaps you were here—on a date with someone.”

“I’d _never_ date someone at this party,” the jab is apparent, pointed. It’s also true.

Rhysand’s eyes glitter with enjoyment, but before he can get another word in, I begin to walk away from him and his smiles, putting the table between us. I don’t like the way I enjoy our biting banter. I don't like that I take pride in earning those smiles that come with such trouble.

“Well, Mr. Night,” He gives me a wicked, knowing grin from his side of the table. “I’ve got work to do; have a good evening.”

“Wait—how are you getting home?” Rhysand’s voice is suddenly laced with concern; for a brief second, the man I turn to look at lacks all of his usual edges, that something sinister he carries with him. He checks the time on his watch. “I’m afraid we kept you rather late tonight, and you certainly can’t put a dress like that on the bus. Is... someone coming to get you?”

I recognize the attempt to ascertain my status for what it is. Again. Amarantha’s cruel eyes flash in my mind. “I’m—“

“Feyre, the taxi is here,” Clare interrupts. I’m surprised at her; we had no plans to do such a thing, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure that Clare even knew my name. I raise a brow at her, confused; we’re nowhere near finished with the cleanup. She gives me a pointed expression.

I look back to Rhys, shrugging, and trying to play cool. His lips tremble with amusement; I think he might be trying not to laugh.

“Good,” Rhysand loses to the smile. “Now, be off before the real monsters come down from upstairs.”

The edge to his voice is back, echoed in his haunted eyes.

Clare and I don’t have to be told twice.


	11. Chapter 11

## XIX. running away together

“This is a horrible idea,” I tell my trainer, wiping the sweat off my brow with my sleeve. “I might be able to beat up Alis, but never the likes of you.”

“Rude,” Alis calls from her perch on a stool. “I could beat your ass any day, Feyre Archeron,” she tells me without even looking up from her phone.

Cassian bursts into laughter, full and deep from his belly. I have a feeling that he always laughs this way, without reserve; I don’t think my best friend and I are quite funny enough to earn it on our own otherwise. Alis grins at me over his shoulder; she likes him.

“You’re right; you never will be,” the man agrees with me, arms crossed as he looks me over, judging. My face falls before he can continue, but he only raises a dark brow in challenge. “_If_ you don’t get back to work.”

I groan, hating his logic, but I nod, and we get back to it. As I try to absorb his lesson, his tips, and tricks, I do my best not to feel foolish with inexperience. I have no idea what it is that I am doing.

Maybe, we should’ve made different plans for our first attempt at hanging out. Cassian owns the gym we’re in now, opened it a few years back. The place is about what you'd expect of the man in front of me. At first, I wasn’t sure why the app matched us together, Cassian and I. With his hulking frame and top-knot, he looks like someone who hangs out at hip bars and shares workout photos on Instagram. I'm barely capable of walking most days, and I certainly don't know how to handle myself at a bar.

That’s probably why Alis insisted that she come along. I told her I didn’t need a chaperone; I’m nearly twenty-three, capable of managing my day to day life without a babysitter. Yet, when my best friend learned of my plans—“Feyre? Are you in _gym clothes? _I didn’t know you owned any. She didn’t leave me any other option but to bring her.

_I won’t let you go hang out with some random gym rat that you’ve never met before _alone.

I’d wanted to ask Alis if she ever had someone accompany her when she met with new people, but then again, this wasn’t Alis’s first boxing lesson, unlike me. She really could kick ass if she needed to.

How could I get mad at her anyway? I’m her best friend; she’s just looking out for me. Like she always does.

We go through the rounds, or at least I think we do. Truthfully, I have no idea what I am doing; I’ve never felt at home in a gym, have never kept any sort of workout routine to stay in shape. Poverty and depression always served me just fine, but I was determined to change that.

I wanted to do better.

#

“Aw, who’s a good boy?” I coo to Cassian’s dog afterward. The mammoth creature grins at me, tongue lolling out of his mouth. When he collapses onto his back, I dutifully rub his belly. “That’s right! _Archie is a good boy!_”

“And you thought _you_ were making a friend today,” Alis drawls to Cassian, slipping through his defense and hitting him in the shoulder. Cassian looks torn between taking offense and being impressed with my fearsome cohort. I have to share his opinions; Alis looks imposing in her leggings and sports bra, confident to go without her shirt. I’ll never be that brave.

“If Archie makes a friend, I’ve made a friend,” Cassian declares, striking out at Alis; she blocks him, and he grits his teeth. “You can’t have one without the other.”

“Archie and I are going to run away together,” I announce to the sparring duo. Archie perks up at the prospect of going somewhere; I suspect the friendly beast would jump into a car with a complete stranger if it meant going for a ride. I smile at him. “Does that sound like fun, buddy?” The dog grins, tongue wagging. “It’s decided. Say your goodbyes, Cassian.”

“Now wait just a second—” Alis hits Cassian in the ribs, cutting off his sentence. He glares at the three of us. “You can’t just steal a guy’s dog! Archie back me up.” The dog looks uninclined to do so, willing to go with whoever is offering a walk. “This is not happening!”

Alis and I break into a peal of laughter, and Archie looks pleased to have earned such praise. Cassian pouts all the way through the cooldown, but it’s clear I’ve made a new friend—two counting Archie.

## XX. promotion

“Feyre, could you come here, please?”

My heart lurches at the thought of entering Janice’s icebox of an office. The woman keeps the air positively freezing in there; I don’t know how she’s always dressed in knee-length skirts and sleeveless shirts. I’ve always been the type to need a sweater.

Following the gala, Janice has had little criticism for me. Confident that my contract was safe, I kept my head down and kept to my copying and filing, eager to please. I’ve done an excellent job if I do say so myself. Janice backed off, and I was no longer the target for her biting words.

Yet, the being called to Janice's office wasn't what has had my stomach in knots these days.

Rhysand was nowhere to be seen, but I wasn’t sure if that was a bad thing or not.

Whispers that he and Amarantha were at odds with each other were everywhere; people talked about it in the elevator, warned each other to stay out of their ways. Lunchtime gossip centered around the standoff going down upstairs, ominous and vague. It was like waiting for the clash of two titans.

_That_ was why I needed to stay the hell away from them.

James raises a brow at me in question, sitting across from me at the conference table; I shrug, having no answer for him. Today’s task is to figure out the organization system for the creative team on the 67th floor; it wasn’t going very well. I want to find whoever started this system and strangle them. And ask them if they even knew their alphabet.

I get up from the table, smoothing my skirt as I go. I try not to meet anyone’s apologetic eyes as I cross the floor and head for Janice’s office. They’re pitying looks will only increase my panic.

“What’s up?” I shoot for a casual tone; maybe she won’t notice the panic in my eyes or the way my voice wavers with worry. I cannot lose this job.

“I’d like to offer you a job,” Janice always cuts to the chase. I suppose I like that about her, despite her many faults. “It would appear we have a new opening.”

“Oh?” I say for lack of something smarter, more intelligent.

Janice’s mouth pulls into a grim line as she shuffles papers on her desk. It’s a power move more than anything; we both know that Janice knows precisely what is going on, what to say. Come to think of it, I’m still not sure what it is that Janice _does. _She wants to offer me a job? Doing what?

“Yes, Clare gave her notice last night,” Janice sounds displeased, to say the least. “Through an email of all things. She sent it right from that desk,” she nods towards Clare’s work desk, and I notice that it’s empty, cleared of any personal effects. The picture of her and her mother that I’d admired last week is gone.

Janice continues, “then clocked out last night—left without a proper goodbye, took all of her things, and just vanished.”

“Oh,” I say again. “Did she say… why?”

The flash of rage in Janice’s eyes makes me regret asking. “She did, but I will not be sharing that information with you, Miss Archeron.”

I flinch, “Of course not. Sorry.”

Janice's eyes fall closed, and she takes a deep breath. Trying to calm herself, perhaps? I’m feeling very uncomfortable right now. “Anyway, it leaves us in need of a new office admin for the floor. I’ve been through your resume a few times; although you do have a bit of a gap in employment until recently, you appear to have the qualifications I need.”

I flinch at the reminder that I was forced to resign from a job I loved very much that I was very good at because _he_ felt that I should.

A proper wife stayed home, tended to the household. She didn’t get up and go to the office every day; it took away from her time for chores for her husband.

“Would you be interested?” Janice interrupts my spiraling thoughts. I blink.

“Yes!” I’m so excited; I practically shout the word, afraid that if I take too long to respond, Janice will rescind the offer. My boss raises a blonde eyebrow at me, and I blush under her gaze.

“I would be very interested,” I say, calmer. At least I think I do. “And appreciative.”

That seems to satisfy her. Janice gives me a genuine smile before delving into the details. Something about Hybern canceling that contract I worked so hard to keep and my giving my personal notice with the company. Then the in’s and out’s of paperwork with Hybern’s HR.

I’m so excited that I barely hear any of it. I need to call Alis- to tell Mor! They’ll be so excited, even Morrigan, I think, despite her weariness of the company.

Janice dismisses me, and I head for the door, already drawing up the text I’m going to send Mor. We’ve exchanged actual phone numbers now.

_We’re almost real friends! _Morrigan told me, playful as ever. _But you don’t have a Facebook, so we’ll never be official._

“I look forward to working with you more closely, Feyre,” Janice calls after me without looking up. “The people at Spring Corp spoke highly of you.”

“You called them?” Dread consumes me, locks my knees in place, and freezes my bones. I didn’t place Spring Corp on my resume, but I did make the mistake of telling the temp agency of my experience there. I’d been so desperate for work. They likely added it on when they submitted my resume to Hybern. They make money off of our contracts too, after all.

“Of course, I did,” Janice waves me off. As if she would ever hire someone without calling the references, even though they already worked for her. “A woman named Ianthe said you were _excelled at whatever you put your mind to_.”

“Oh,” I say for the third time that day. When I met Ianthe, I wasn't putting my mind to much, to anything. I slept most of the time and stared at the wall for the rest of it. I think she thought we were friends.

Janice nods once, oblivious to my spiral. “Thank you for your time.”

As I return to my work, I feel the world go out of focus. All I can make out is the rushing of blood in my ears. I think I manage to slip away unnoticed, by Janice or the other employees. I make a mad dash to the ladies’ room before I can be sick.

Tamlin knows where I am.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s flashback time! Uh, typical warnings for Tamlin-issues apply. Everything is canon-inspired, and nothing goes off the rails (yet).

## xxi. Spring Corp

I remember the day I was offered the job at Spring Corp. I was so excited; I’d never thought I’d score an interview much less obtain an offer. I accepted before the woman had even finished her sentence.

_We’d like to offer you the pos—_YES. I accept. _Would you like to hear the salary offer first, ma’am? _Uh, yeah. Sure!

I rushed home from my job at the grocery store to share the news with my family. Dad was proud, and Elain wished me congratulations. Nesta scoffed at me; she wouldn’t dare accept a placement as an office admin, a role with such little power—much let a _part-time one._

I was just happy to get paid, to be viewed as capable of a job with a company as prestigious as Spring Corp. They were practically a Fortune 500, or maybe they were already, I didn’t know how those things worked. I still don’t, even now, after having almost married the head of one.

Tamlin didn’t notice me for a while, but I saw him. He was—spectacular. The way the man could enter a room and immediately have the attention of every person in it, I’ve never experienced that sort of power, never experienced having such a gravitational pull.

I was setting up a conference room for one of his meetings the first time he took notice of me. The meeting wasn’t for an hour yet, and Tamlin’s personal administrator was out sick. I was called in last minute to cover, and I never turned down an opportunity to work, to earn money. I’ve always enjoyed the satisfaction of a job well done, of having _earned_ something. Even just a small paycheck.

As is my way, I approached the task with fervor, meticulously arranging the plain green folders and heavy metal pens. I muttered to myself while I worked. “Each seat needs one folder, two pens… and a stationary pad. That one is crooked.”

I don’t know how long he was there, watching me talk to myself like a crazy person, nitpicking over something as inconsequential at the placing of pens. Still, I do know that I was positively mortified when I realized that the CEO had walked into the conference room, was watching me with an amused, soft smile, and sparkling green eyes. I jumped six feet into the air in surprise.

“Hello,” was all he said, once my feet were back on the ground.

“H—hello,” I barely managed the simple greeting, starstruck as I was. “I’m—Feyre.”

I accepted his hand when he offered; his skin was warm, almost hot, to the touch. I blushed madly, and it wasn’t just due to being surprised. “My name is Tamlin.”

“I know,” I say too quickly, shaking his hand enthusiastically. A girl like me never would have thought she’d end up working around a guy as crucial as Tamlin Spring. “Uh, I mean—_Nice to meet you._”

Gods, I was so embarrassed; I thought for sure he’d mock me mirthlessly for my innocent eagerness, but Tamlin just gave me another gentle smile, took in the conference room, and thanked me for my work. I beamed under his praise, but I knew a polite dismissal when I hear one; I slipped out and away, rode the high of his approval all day.

I didn’t think anything of it when I started to run into him more often. Our paths had always crisscrossed; our roles, though so vastly different in nature and importance, were a part of a tangled web that kept the business of Spring Corp. running. I’d noticed him all of the time before; I didn’t question why he’d only started noticing me now.

Just as I don’t question it when I’m offered to work as Tamlin’s personal administrative assistant. His previous one, Samantha, was an older lady, sweet as sugar and ready to retire and love on her grandchildren full time. I’m so relieved when the trip down to the HR office ends with a promotion – a _huge_ promotion - and not termination that I don’t consider the queer expression on the woman’s face.

Why would Tamlin Spring promote this underqualified girl from the bottom of the talent pool to be his personal assistant?

Unlike her, however, I don’t second guess the fact that a part-time office admin was promoted up to the top _level of the building_. It’s just filing paperwork and answering the phones; I’m just setting up appointments for the CEO and president of Spring Corp. instead. And even if I had felt a moment’s doubt, concern for the meaning of this sudden rise in position, I would have ignored it. I needed the money, was desperate for it.

Because this job meant that my family wouldn’t go hungry, it meant that I’d have money to paint. This job meant things were looking up.

I wish I’d reconsidered.

## xxii. flowers

The flowers were there on my very first day. I remember how flattered I was; dressed in the best pencil skirt and blouse I could find from the thrift store, I felt like I was walking on cloud nine, entering the office space that would be my new work home.

Lucien, the CEO’s right-hand man, took one look at me and another at the flowers and just—_laughed. _It was a bitter, cruel sound, and I took immediate offense to it and everything about the ill-tempered redhead. He didn’t trust me, Lucien told me without compassion. I was just another gold-digging secretary, out to take advantage of his best friend.

Later, after all the shattered glass lay quiet on the floor, Lucien would apologize to me, for thinking that I was so vain, and then he would make me a dangerous offer.

Lucien got me out, but I won’t forget he let me suffer first.

## xxiii. a surprise

Tamlin and I danced around each other for a delightful, tortuous two months. It’s horrific to me, in retrospect, that it took so little time for me to be utterly infatuated by him. I’ve always been distrusting of others, particularly any man who even displayed an ounce of attraction for me. Then Tamlin came along, with his flowers and kind smiles, and I forgot everything that I’d come to know.

Yet, I loved being on the receiving end of Tamlin’s interest; his kind words and flirty, ultimately work inappropriate touches, had me dizzy. I didn’t think twice when he showed up in his Armani suit on the doorstep of my dilapidated two-bedroom apartment. I was so embarrassed at the time; Nesta was screaming all manner of profanities in the background, and Elain was trying desperately to get Dad to eat something.

We stood there, awkwardly, staring at each other. His beautiful suit and my paint-splattered clothes were in such contrast; I should have taken the warning sign for what it was.

After all, I saw the flash of judgment there, the way his jaw locked while he tried to compose himself, not wanting to give himself away; Tamlin ordered his private car all the way across town to the slums of Prythian to see me, to surprise me. He wasn’t going to leave without what he wanted.

Me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, surprised when I found Tamlin on the other side of the door. I remember flinching as Nesta screamed my name. I reached for the company phone in my pocket, checking to see if I missed a call or text from him. “I’ve been… preoccupied; did you need something?”

“Yes,” he breathed the word out, soft. Tamlin’s green eyes shone with such hope; it made me breathless. “Would you like to go out with me?”

“Like, right now?” I tugged self-consciously at my paint-stained shirt. I was painting more then, with the time and money to do so. He eyes it with a fondness that has me feeling, at least a little, more secure with my appearance.

Nesta yelled my name again, louder and nearer. Over my shoulder, I could see her rushing toward me, murder in her eyes. She hated the paint fumes.

Something steely flashed in Tamlin’s eyes. “Unless you’d rather stay here?”

I walked out the door without my wallet and a paintbrush in my hand.

#

He took me home that very first night, drank in every inch of skin I had to offer, savored every sound I made. I wasn’t a virgin, but I was definitely more inexperienced than Tamlin. I think he liked it that way.

That’s not to say I blamed him for that—or accused him of taking advantage of me. Tamlin was a gentleman about it. He asked, without pressuring me, and I said yes. And I meant it.

#

The flowers arrived daily for me, timed to materialize while I was out at lunch, usually with the man in question himself. I’d always gasp in surprise and appreciation, even after months of the game; Tamlin said he liked seeing me smile, and perhaps that was true, but I think he liked showing off to the others in the company more. Anyone who came through to see Tamlin got to see his attractive girlfriend at the front desk and the daily fresh cut flowers.

It definitely had to be some sort of HR violation, to date my boss. To date _the_ boss, but no one ever said anything. I suppose it’s hard to tell one of the most powerful men in Prythian, in the country, that they’re breaking the rules. I certainly wouldn’t have dared to say to him he was abusing his power. Then again, my rose-colored glasses had me blind to it.

## xxiv. Alis

Spring Corp. was where I met Alis. Back then, she was a spunky, well-accomplished marketing agent for the company. I first met her scheduling a meeting for Tamlin over the phone; then later we bumped into each other in the elevator, by a chance of fate. We’d never crossed paths before, but that wasn’t uncommon in a skyscraper like this.

“You’re Feyre!” Alis had chirped at me, warm and friendly even then. Even there.

“Uh, yeah, and you are?” I held out my hand to her anyways, practiced in the proper office etiquette.

She clasped my hand in hers. “I’m Alis!”

I remember that Alis had a firm handshake, but it wasn’t too hard, domineering. Not like most of the people who I interacted with for Tamlin. The older men, in particular, were an exclusive brand of condescending. They usually called me _the Misses_. Tamlin knew, had overheard it; he thought it was funny, harmless.

He’d never lived as a woman. Never had to work especially hard to prove that you had earned your right to be somewhere.

Had I, though? Earned my place amongst those elite members lining the conference rooms of Spring? Or was I only ever there because of my shy smile and tendency to stutter when I got excited?

## xxv. moving in together

It was a lovely Spring day when Tamlin asked me to move in with him.

Wait, no. That’s not how the conversation went.

“I’ve arranged to have your things moved on Tuesday,” Tamlin told me casually over breakfast. I’d burnt the toast, but he just assured me I would learn better with time. I agreed. We ordered in.

“What?” I said through my French toast. Talking with food in my mouth is a habit of mine. Tamlin arched one fair brow at me, expressing his distaste for the practice. I swallowed my food, then repeated. “Why are we moving my things? To where?”

He shrugged, flipped a page in his newspaper, oblivious to my racing heart. “To here. You’re here every night anyways. We’ll save time not having to go back and forth across town this way—and money.”

Like he cared about money. We both knew the addition to be an afterthought, a ploy to persuade me via my frugal personality. Even now that I had access to an abundance of it, being vastly overpaid for my work, I still hoarded every dollar, spent every penny with the utmost discretion.

“Is that alright?” Tamlin asked, finally noticing the way I’d frozen to the spot, processing this sudden turn in events. It’s true, I did spend most nights with Tamlin; it was a habit we formed almost immediately after that first date. Yet, I’d liked knowing I still had a place to go back to if I wanted, even if it was just a beat-up old couch.

If all of my stuff moved to this shiny, penthouse overlooking the river, I would be stuck, with nowhere to run too.

I should’ve been worried about why I thought I might need to run. Instead, I said _yes._

## xxvi. marry me

He asked to marry him not long after moving in together. Tamlin and I hadn’t even crossed over that coveted year-mark of our relationship when I stumbled upon a living room decorated with roses and petals scattered, when I found my boyfriend waiting for me after work, down on one knee.

I’d known I thought it was weird that Tamlin left for home without me that afternoon, making excuses about a headache, but not wanting me to come with him. We were practically attached at the hip those days. Two pieces of one being, going through the motions of life. Co-dependent on one another.

He said: _Let’s get married. Will you do that for me?_

And I said: _Of course._

## xxvii. lady’s man

Life carried on.

The honeymoon phase of our relationship rekindled, having tried to fade in that way those things do. Moving in with a significant other comes with its hurdles. I was too messy, and he was too quiet. I couldn’t cook, but he didn’t care—like to order food in, anyway. I hated to spend money, and he thrived off of it, off of showing off his wealth.

The painting was my preference for a pastime anyway; though, I suspected Tamlin would have liked having me master the art of roasting a perfect Cornish hen instead. But Tamlin liked boasting to his buddies about the masterpieces on the wall, how they were one of a kind—and he lived with the artist. He’d always wrap one possessive arm around me and flash me a smile; I always beamed at his approval. I lived for it.

Lucien was happy for us, I think. Even after a year, he still looked at me like I might be trying to pull one over on them. I wondered how many times a woman had come into their lives just to try and get money out of them. When I asked him about it, I remember that he laughed.

_Tamlin’s always been a lady’s man. This is just the first time he’s ever decided to marry one of you._

_#_

Looking back, I don’t know how I could have missed all the little warnings, signs that littered our relationship. The only excuse I could use was stupidity; it was a pure force of will that kept me oblivious, in the dark, of what I was weaving myself into.

Tell me where you’re going. Before you leave next time.

I don’t want you going there.

Or, those aren’t the kind of people I want you spending your time with.

Where are you?

What are you doing?

Who are you with?

Come back. Now.

I think it was because I was desperate to have someone, to lean on someone. I’d never been able to just let someone take care of me before; I hate that I was so willing to just let Tamlin step in and take the lead, even at the cost of my independence.

## xxviii. replacement

“I’ve found your replacement; she’ll start next Monday.” Tamlin broke the news over breakfast; honestly, it was his favorite way of breaking news, to anyone. The office knew to be worried if you were invited to breakfast with the CEO of Spring. It likely meant you were in for a lashing—or you were fired.

I’d know. I scheduled the meetings.

“What replacement?” Dread filled my bones. I knew his answer, knew what this meant. The signs had been there for a while now, but I’d figured he’d just let me have this _one_ thing. By then, the length of my leash had begun to shorten, had only just revealed its existence to me.

_Don’t walk there. _The coffee shop is less than a block away. _Order a car. _Or his favorite:_ send one of the girls for it._

_Let’s have lunch today. _I was going to eat with Alis. _Alis is a bad influence. _How so? _Her **lifestyle**_ _isn’t appropriate._

Tamlin switched newspapers, muttering something about losing a bet with Lucien. “For my new office admin. You were saying you need more time to handle things here, around the house.”

What I’d actually told him, amid a stress-induced panic attack, was that I couldn’t do it all alone. I’d asked for help, to keep up with the chores around the apartment. Between work and my art classes, I didn’t have enough time to come home, cook dinner, and clean the bathroom—get laundry done and still have the energy for sex.

In Tamlin’s eyes, I think he saw himself as helping.

I should have dug my heels in then, argued that this was not the correct solution to the problem. I should have asked Tamlin why he wasn’t capable of lending a hand; we both worked, identical hours, practically side by side.

But I chose the path of least resistance. I was afraid; I didn’t want to push Tamlin away, to make him want to leave me. I didn’t want to be alone. Yet, I wasn’t going to thank him, not for taking my job away from me, for taking something I treasured so.

So, I said nothing. I think that was worse.

#

I was taking art classes back then, part-time, and only auditing. I didn’t even care that I wasn’t receiving credit for any of it; I was just so happy to be _learning._ I remember soaking in everything that the professor had to offer. I was definitely more excited to be there than any of the college kids suffering through another Gen Ed.

Tamlin disenrolled me in the art class a week after the new girl started at Spring Corp. He simply did it, informed me just before I was about to walk out the door and head to class. I was crushed.

I’m still not sure how he managed to do it in my stead.

I guess money can get you whatever you want.

#

Later, when the depression rolled in and stole my mind away from him, he’d have to hire a maid, to do all the chores I was supposed to do and to make sure I remembered to take a shower.

Tamlin took everything from me, anything that was solely just mine.

One day I was Feyre Archeron, an office admin by day and a painter by night. I liked to talk with my mouth full of food, and I was probably the messiest, loudest person in existence. I took art classes on Wednesdays after dinner, and I liked to go out and try fancy new restaurants with Alis, my best friend, at lunch. My boyfriend sent me flowers at work and showed off my paintings. We liked to go out and have dinner with our “unruly adopted son,” Lucien. I was happy; I was free.

Then one day—I just wasn’t. I was someone different; I was someone without hobbies or friends. I didn’t go to work or to dinner or to art class, and I was too afraid to be loud or make a mess. My fiancé stopped sending me flowers, starting tracking my location with the GPS on my phone. Lucien avoided making eye contact with me. I’d forget to shower and eat; I stared at walls instead of half-painted canvas.

I was a shell of what was once Feyre Archeron; I was the future Mrs. Tamlin Spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SORRY. I'll make sure there are a few giggles in the next one!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coffee and gossip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely comments! We're back in the present for now. Truthfully, I wasn't you guys would want all that backstory, but I figured what the heck, why not.
> 
> Also, I’ve updated the summary to better reflect the direction the story went in. It sort of took on a life of its own and made its own plans. *shrugs*

## xxix. mysterious circumstances

The promotion comes on Friday, and I spend all of the weekend holed up in my room, hiding under the covers from ghosts and trembling with fear. I worked so hard to get away from him. How could I possibly have been so foolish as to mention my past at Spring Corp to that stupid agency, to anyone?

I’m supposed to start work for Janice on Monday, a rush start due to Clare’s departure. I can’t help but stew over what could possibly have possessed Clare to quit. The last time I’d really had a conversation with her had been the taxi ride home from the gala. We’d taken the majority of the journey in silence, but before I could get out at my stop, Clare caught my arm.

She didn’t say anything; although, it looked like she wanted to. Her brow furrowed for a moment, and I waited, but Clare just let me go, withdrew her hand. I gave her my share of the money, and that was that. We passed each other in the office, shared a few words over projects; everything had seemed alright, but was it?

“Are you coming to the gym?” Alis knocks at the door. I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s Sunday; I’m supposed to meet with Cassian for some more lessons. Sometimes Alis comes with me, but just as often, I go alone, now that Cassian is Alis-approved. I think Alis only comes when she feels like beating Cassian up.

“I’m sick,” is my weak reply. Alis cracks the door open, peering inside at me. I see the recognition in her face; she knows as well as I do that, I’m not sick, not in the physical sense anyway.

“What is it?” Alis asks, her voice kind and gentle. Her feet pad softly across the floor as she approaches the bed, sliding in behind me. I roll over immediately, snuggling into my best friend’s arms. “You’ve been doing so…”

She doesn’t finish, looking guilty at her choice of words. I sniffle, trying to bite back my own guilt over my backslide. When Alis plays with my hair, I start to relax into her, allowing my eyes to flutter shut. I could fall asleep like this.

“I got a job promotion,” I mutter softly. Alis stiffens, likely confused about how this relates. “I’m going to work fulltime for Hybern now. Like actually for Hybern and not as a temp.”

“You what?” Alis leans back to look me in the eye. “Fey! That’s amazing!”

When I don’t meet her smile, Alis frowns. “Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yeah, it is. Or it should be.” I sigh. “Except that Janice called my references.”

Alis looks confused as to why that would be a bad thing; I give her a pointed look, urging her to remember so that I don’t have to give voice to the words. “Oh. _Oh._”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

“Well, that’s not such a big deal.” Alis’s voice clearly aims for chipper; she always tries to see the bright side for me, my shining beacon in the dark. “Usually, a reference call just goes to the HR department, for verification that the applicant did work for that company and wasn’t, like, fired under mysterious circumstances or something.”

“Mysterious circumstances?” I sit up, incredulous. “How does one get fired under _mysterious circumstances?_”

Alis’s eyes glitter, happy to have gotten a reaction out of me. She leans towards me, conspiratorial. “Well, perhaps, they started _harboring_ the CEO’s fiancé; so, they just don’t go back? Ever?”

I flinch at the reminder of all that Alis has given up to help me. When I showed up, soaked to the bone and scared in the rain, Alis took me in without question. She didn’t want to risk Tamlin hunting me down through her, didn’t want him to use her employee file to get her address, so together, we packed up her things and fled. Prythian was a big city; someone could easily get lost in it. We did.

She and I found someone desperate for a subleaser, and the rest was history.

“I’m sorry you gave up so much for me,” I whisper to her in the dark.

Alis scoffs. “Please, you just gave me the kick in the butt I needed. That job had me on a dead-end path, but I did get to meet you; so, it wasn’t all terrible.”

“Janice called Ianthe,” I tell Alis. “She spoke to her directly about me. He,” I swallow but cannot bring myself to say his name, not aloud. “He will know where to find me now, where I am working.”

Alis’s grip around me tightens marginally. “He comes anywhere near you, and I’ll kill him myself.” She vows. “But you should notify your head of department, though. HR, too. Get something on paper that obligates them to take care of you. He’s a sneaky bastard.”

“Okay,” I agree with her, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to bring myself to voice the words, to take action. Asking for help from Alis is one thing; asking for help from strangers, from my employer, is another. I won’t tell Alis that, though. Besides, there’s a reasonable chance that Ianthe won’t even tell Tamlin that she knows where I’ve gone; it wouldn’t do her any favors to have me returned.

Then after a moment’s silence. “Cassian is waiting for us.”

Alis rolls her eyes. “That oaf can wait. We’re cuddling.”

> **CASSIAN (4:45 PM)**
> 
> You’re late!!!!!
> 
> _[pic of Cassian scowling]_
> 
> **FEYRE (4:46 PM)**
> 
> Feyre can’t come to the phone right now.
> 
> She’s snuggling with her best friend.
> 
> That’s me.
> 
> _[picture of Feyre and Alis cuddled up]_
> 
> **CASSIAN (4:47 PM)**
> 
> Can I join?

## xxx. Merger?

Nothing happens.

I spend all of that first week in my new role just waiting for one of my nightmares to come true, for Tamlin to appear over my shoulder, burning with rage and disappointment. Every time the elevator chimes, breaking up an eerie silent moment, I expect Ianthe, that soul-sucking creature, to waltz out those steel doors. She always loved to bring me down.

But no one shows. Somehow, between jumping at every elevator ding and sneaking glances over my shoulder, I learn the ins and outs of Clare’s job. My new job. I adjust. It’s not so different than anything I’ve done before.

With time, I start to calm down, become less anxious, but I don’t think I’ll ever lose the nagging fear I carry with me, even in my personal life.

The experience fills me with joy and pride. As someone who once dropped out of school, landing a real and permanent position within a company as prestigious as Hybern is a pretty big fucking deal. I don’t even care that half of my role is just hunting down Suriel for Janice’s overly-detailed coffee order. I’m doing something _useful_.

At least in the other half of my role, managing the temporary employees and interns via Janice is useful. It’s weird at first to handle people who, until a matter of days ago, I was one of, but the transition goes rather smoothly. It helps that their contracts are all at their end; they’ll be gone soon, off to another company, another office.

I’ve always fancied myself to be a gentle leader, the kind that guides rather than orders around. I found in my days in Spring Corp that kindness will always get you further with your people. It’s something Tamlin and I never really saw eye to eye on. He’s always been a vicious thing in the boardroom. In the home, too.

“Alright, Suriel,” I say, handing the coffee girl Janice’s company card. I don’t really think coffee runs are expense-able purchases, but I’m not going to be the one to correct my boss of that. “Give me the lowdown. How’d the meeting on 89 go.”

89 is the floor where Hybern holds its board meetings; I couldn’t tell you why. I’d heard a whisper or two on the elevator about some big board meeting happening today, and I had to admit that I was curious about why it would have everyone on edge. Apparently, no one more than the CEO and his henchmen, Amarantha, and Rhysand.

“Shitty,” Suriel tells me with a flip of her dark hair. She’s a blunt creature, and I appreciate that, sometimes. As long as it isn’t about me and my polka dot sweater, I love that sweater. She's just mean. “It was basically a big pissing match about who should get credit for what, which is ridiculous because their titles literally tell them that.”

I snort and accept the coffee she passes me. I like that she makes mine first, lets me sip at it while she fiddles with Janice’s abomination of a drink. “Credit for what?”

Suriel wrinkles her pale, pointed nose. “Some merger shit. Waaayyy above my head.”

“Huh,” I sip delicately at my coffee, minding the hot liquid. “Sur, this is lovely. You’re my favorite.”

“You and every other caffeine-addicted human in this building,” Suriel quips, passing me Janice’s drink. “And yet no one will bring me that cloak I want so bad from the Palace of Threads. It’s Christmas!”

“Cloak?” I raise a brow, smiling. “What century is this?”

“Don’t mock me, Feyre Archeron,” she warns. Her voice catches me off guard, as does the fire in her eye. “Cloaks are marvelous. They keep you warm without losing any motion in your arms, and they just look great.”

I laugh at her. “My bad. Please forgive me, oh wise provider of coffee and gossip.”

Suriel winks. “I’ll think about it.”

I leave her to her magic, laughing all the way to the elevator. I understand now why she travels around the office so much and why Hybern’s employees would go looking for her, go so far as to IM each other her location throughout the day—a list, I am on, unashamedly. Her coffee is by far the best.

I wonder if it could break Cassian’s Starbucks addiction.


	14. Chapter 14

## xxxi. a threat

I ride the elevator back up to our floor, turning around what Suriel said about a board meeting in my head. It’s way over my pay level, and probably even Janice’s, but I have to admit I’m at least a little curious. What kind of merger would Hybern be up to that would have people on edge? Is the company in trouble? Great, I would get a job right before everything went under.

The elevator chimes, and I am disappointed to see that it’s on the 50th floor. The whispers I’ve heard about them is less than pleasing; Suriel herself said that we’ll never find her coffee cart down here. Apparently, the “blood-suckers” have to come to her themselves.

I’m even more upset when I catch sight of Eris and his brilliant red hair, scowling and staring at his phone while he waits for the lift. I watch with dread as he enters the elevator with another man, an older, angrier version of himself. They don’t notice me watching as they hit the button for 89. Interesting.

“You ought to be embarrassed,” the older man tells Eris, who’s face is grim. “How could you allow me to walk into that meeting so unprepared?”

“Sorry, Father.” Well, that explains a similar appearance.

“To think that that _child_ would rise to such a position— and that you didn’t even bother telling me! _This_ is how you’re letting your family business be handled? Is this how you’re going ruin everything if I step down?”

Eris melts under his father’s glare; he doesn’t seem so tough now that daddy is mad at him. I want to feel bad for him; I know what it is to let down your father, but I remember the greedy looks he flashed me the night of the gala and reconsider my feelings.

“Rhysand got the job because Hybern decided he was capab—“

“That boy got the job because he’s fucking Hybern’s daughter.” Eris’s father practically shouts, stomping one impeccably shined dress shoe for emphasis. I flinch at the man’s anger, an old reflex, but I manage not to cry out in surprise.

They’re talking about Amarantha. About her and Rhys. Nepotism runs rampant in this place. I take a moment to consider my rise to fame within Spring, how it was done because I’d merely caught a powerful man’s eye; favoritism runs rampant everywhere.

However, Eris notices me when I move, flashing me a snide smile over his father’s shoulder. The older redhead is too busy ranting and raving to even see the little gesture. I narrow my eyes at him, send him my best dirty look, but it only seems to encourage the younger man.

Yet, Eris doesn’t speak to me, remaining quiet as his father complains. In fact, Eris’s dad doesn’t notice me until the elevator hits my floor, and we stop. The older businessman blinks, confused to be stopping at this floor—surely an elevator would never inconvenience the likes of him for _other people_. Then he notices me and scowls, furious.

I’d wager the man is afraid of what I’ll repeat to other employees, higher-ranking employees; that’s what the idiot gets for raving about without checking over his shoulder first. I offer him a tight-lipped smile and hedge my way towards the exit. Neither man makes an effort to create space for me, as is the way most of their sex.

Eris’ father snatches my arm, and I go deathly still, surprised and afraid.

“If you know what’s best for you, you will keep what you heard to yourself,” the man hisses at me. I’m so caught off-guard at being grabbed so that I freeze, my mind going blank.

“I—“ I want to say something powerful and smart, channel Morrigan’s ferociousness or Alis’s quick-wit, but I can’t. Instead of Eris’s father, all I can see is Tamlin’s frown, hear his thunderous words.

“Dad,” Eris reprimands, yanking his father’s hands off my arm. He flashes me a worried look, but is he concerned about my feelings or Rhysand, were he to learn of this?

Either way, I take my exit, scurrying through the doors, and barely clearing them before they can close. I can still hear Eris’s dad, his privileged words echoing in the steel box. Part of me hopes it drops them.

“I can damn well do whatever I please! I’m—" but the door closes before he can finish.

## xxxii. Christmas

“Merry Christmas!” Cassian sings to me, handing me a rather intimidatingly sized box. The wrapping on it is shoddy, wrinkled, and torn in a few places, but the message is clear: Cassian bought me a Christmas present.

The cocky bastard’s managed to slip his way into my life in much the same way Morrigan did. It was like I’d known him all along; we just clicked, even when I was particularly blue. I think he figured it out pretty quickly; my mood swings, fear of my own shadow, and desire to learn how to protect myself tended to add up to one thing.

Cassian never spoke of it, though; never asked any prodding questions. On days where I would show up to his gym cold and numb, my new friend would taunt me until I lashed back at him; he’d beat me in a match, give me a few pointers to do better, and then beat me up again. It worked. Those nights after spending an evening at the gym were some of the best, dreamless nights of sleep I’d had in a long time.

“I didn’t get you anything!” I practically shout, panicked. We’d bonded sure, but I didn’t think we were on that level yet; I wouldn’t know what to get him for a Christmas present if I tried. Yet, here he was with one for me, and I was empty-handed.

“Woah, don’t panic!” Cassian’s hazel eyes are soft. “I don’t expect anything back; although, I wouldn’t say no to a Starbucks gift card.”

I roll my eyes at him. We’ve long had the debate about Starbucks versus locally owned shops; he told me simply that the mermaid held his soul. Weirdo.

“Noted.”

“Anyway, this is for you,” he shoves the box into my lap, so I’m forced to take it or let it crash to the gym mat. It’s massive; that’s worse. “To celebrate your one-month milestone at the gym!”

“Oh,” I say. Had it really been that long already? I guess Christmas is just around the corner. Mor, Alis, and I are going to dinner in a few days; it’s our own little joint celebration before both of them abandon me for the holiday. It’ll also be the first time that they meet; it almost makes me too nervous to feel sad about their leaving.

“Well, c’mon!” Cassian urges. “Open it already!”

I eye him nervously, glancing between his eager face and the horribly wrapped present. He waves his arms at me impatiently, and I laugh at him, like a child on Christmas day. I can already imagine him on the morning of, donning a Santa hat and dealing out the gifts from under the tree.

“Feyre! I’m dying over here!” Cassian begs, and Archie whines in agreement. The commotion must have convinced the dog to come out of the office where he’d been napping. On a dog bed almost nicer than my own bed, I might add.

“Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on.” I start to tug at the wrapping; it falls apart quickly.

“You _wish_,” he taunts grinning.

I look at him expectantly, ignoring the present. “Uh, yeah? I do?”

He just winks at me, and I roll my eyes for the hundredth time that day. The weight of the box has me nervous; if he’s gotten me something really nice, I’ll feel even guiltier that I’ve come empty-handed.

“Oh, Cass,” I say, staring at the glossy black gloves in the box. “This is way too nice. These are _way_ too nice for me.”

What was it with people giving me beautiful things that I didn’t deserve? After the gala, I tried relentlessly to get Morrigan to take back the dress, but the blonde had refused adamantly. Stubborn as I am, I sent the dress to her anyway, convinced that she’d forgo the effort of delivering it to me a second time. I was wrong, and she did not. Now the garment hangs, tauntingly, in my closet, waiting for me to find another use for it.

“Pshh,” Cassian shrugs me off, but I can see he’s pleased with my reaction. “They’re black and practical. I was afraid you might deck me if I bought the pink ones. It was a tough call.”

I grin at him, “Probably.”

Archie trots over to me, investigating the gloves inside the box with a sniff, hoping for something for him. Satisfied that nothing is edible, he ambles off back towards the office, likely to continue his nap.

“Right, so,” Cassian tugs at the knot on his hair. “I’m going out of town next week, for the holiday, and so, the gym will be closed. Just a reminder.”

“Oh,” I whisper. “Right.”

That means that everyone will be gone next week, except for me. Although, I don’t even see my small collection of friends every day, the sting of their upcoming absence weighing on me. I make plans to bury my nose into my work to pass the time. It’s only a week, right?

Cassian senses my reaction, “What are you doing for the holidays?”

“Uh, nothing.” I shrug, play nonchalant. I think he sees through the act.

“No dinner or anything?” Cassian nudges my leg with his sneaker. “With the mean one?”

Alis, he means. For some reason, the two have taken to calling each other anything but by their real names. “No. She’s headed home to see her sister and nephews. It’ll be just me for the week. We’ll do something before she goes.”

“Oh,” the guy frowns. “No family, I take it?”

I feel my shoulders tighten under the mention of family. In an instant, I see stormy eyes that match mine, an innocent smile, and the smell of whiskey. They’re not the memories I want to possess, but they’re the ones I have.

“Estranged,” I smile but can feel its weakness. “I was… in a relationship. I haven’t seen my family in years. I don’t even know if they still live around here.”

Cassian looks torn; the way he stands says he’d like nothing more than to scoop me into a bear hug, while his fists tell me he’d like very much to find the person I’ve hinted at and teach them a thing or two.

He settles for the bear hug and a playful growl. I laugh despite the storm of emotions brewing within me; Cassian is good at making people laugh.

#

“Would you want to reach out to them, your family?” Cassian asks me when we’re about to part ways at the door. Archie nips at my fingers, playfully, and I scratch him between the ears as we watch Cassian lock up the gym doors for the night, sliding the grate fence into place. “I won’t tell you to go see them. I don’t know shit about what was going down in first place, and _I do_ know a thing or two about avoiding shitty family situations, but if it’s something you’d like to do, then I say fuck it. Go.”

“Uh, we weren’t really close to begin with,” I tell him, uncertainly. “Everything that happened was really more of a catalyst than anything else. They probably wouldn’t want to see me anyway.”

“Well, if that’s the case—and I’m not saying that I think it is—then that’s their loss,” Cassian sweeps me into another hug; this one bone-breaking tight. Archie yips, unhappy at being left out of the fun. “You’re pretty cool, Feyre Archeron. See you in a week.”

He ruffles my hair; I can tell he doesn’t want to leave me alone for the week, eyes wrinkled with concern. The moment is ruined when he pats at my stomach and says, “Don’t get fat in my absence.”

“Bastard!” I call after him, laughing.

Maybe I will reach out to my sisters, my father. It’s been a few years since last I heard of them, much more since the last I saw of them. I think they visited me just before things took a turn for the worst—at the hospital, I remember with a lurch, but I don’t remember most of the time just before and after those days. I don’t know if it was them or me or Tamlin who pushed them away, cut them off from the youngest Archeron. Thinking of calling them up, it makes me nervous.

I’ll think about, I decide, prolonging the issue until later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, for all your comments. I love hearing your reactions! And theories. ;)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre has dinner with her two best friends.

## xxxiii. Christmas party

We decide to have dinner at the coffee shop, Rita’s, which just seems weird at best. According to Alis, the food is _almost_ as good as the weekend brunch menu. Mor agrees to the venue readily, admitting that she’s never been before; although, the location has caught her eye once or twice.

With both of our jobs being on the opposite side of town, I could see why Mor hasn’t made it back over here. Since brunch with Alis, I’ve struggled to take the time to revisit myself. It’s become something of a Saturday morning treat when I’m feeling up to it. Sometimes, I come for brunch with Alis on Sunday’s too. But I don’t get to go as regularly as I’d like, as I would if I lived or worked closer.

Still, I’m a little embarrassed and surprised that the clerk behind the counter knows me by name now.

“It’s never a bad thing to be on good terms with your coffee supplier, Fey.” Alis insists, nudging me with her elbow, while we get our coffee. Her words make me think of Suriel. It certainly pays to be on that girl’s right side.

Mor isn’t here yet, and I find myself filled with nervousness. My two favorite people are about to meet. What will I do if they don’t like each other? Rationally, I know that it doesn’t matter. Alis’s other friends and I do not click whatsoever, and we’re still friends. Those girls care about planning spa days and who’s dating who, and those are things that I’m just not into. And that’s okay.

Still, I can’t help but admit that if Mor and Alis hate each other, I’ll just be heartbroken.

“Feyre!” Someone shouts, and I look up to spy the blonde tornado that is Morrigan rush into the coffee shop. A few patrons send sharp looks her way; many of them come for a quiet place to read or study and eat, but Mor doesn’t notice them, just as she didn’t in the bar or when we stopped for coffee.

I wonder it’s maybe that she chooses not to care, rather than not noticing.

I’m crumpled into a hug before I can get my hello out, and I rejoice when Alis’s gentle laugh sounds off behind me. That’s a good sign.

“Ohmygosh,” Mor is babbling again, barely stopping for air. “I got _lost_, which is just silly because I grew up in this fucking city, and I have the nerve to call myself a native, but I got LOST!”

“Shh!” Someone hisses from the back of the shop, a stern young woman with glasses sliding down her nose. Mor has the decency to blush at the reprimand.

“Sorry!” The blonde calls loudly, and someone else shushes her. “Shit. _Sorry.” _She whispers, and Alis and I both break into giggles.

“Where did you bring me?” Morrigan looks at me with an accusation, giving the peaceful patrons a side-eye. “A library?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’d do very well in a library,” Alis teases, as she heads for an available table that she’s spotted.

Mor breaks into a rowdy laugh, earning herself another scolding from the woman in the back of the shop. “I like her, Fey Fey.”

I beam.

#

“And then Lucas just smashed the whole picture!” Alis waves her hands about, talking animatedly. She always gets like this about her nephews. “Glass went _everywhere_, and the kid wouldn’t stop crying because his mother _had a photo of some kid_!”

“He just smashed it?” Mor asks, eyes wide. She’s been enraptured by Alis’s stories all evening, soaking up the pictures and kid-tales like a woman starved. It turns out Mor is a kid person; it makes sense. “Because he was jealous?”

“Yes,” Alis breathes the word out. I smile as I watch them. To think I’d been afraid that they might not get along. “But here’s the real kicker: the picture was an old one of _him_.”

“Lucas almost has you matched for being a drama queen,” I tell Alis. My best friend shoots me a lethal look across the table, and Mor laughs, muffling the sound with the palm of her hand. We’re trying not to disturb the other nearby tables, but the crowd here tonight does not seem eager to celebrate Christmas. Their loss.

“Seriously, I don’t know how my sister manages,” Alis says, frowning at the bottom of her coffee mug. She must be out of coffee. How she could manage to consume anything else, liquid or not, is beyond me. I’m positively full.

“I’ll get us another round!” Morrigan declares, whipping away from the table before either of us can protest. I grin after her.

Alis catches my eye, smiles. “She’s a spunky thing.”

“You could say that,” I agree. Mor bursts into laughter at the counter, bright and happy and free; the cashier looks utterly pleased to have earned such a reaction, ears turning pink. It makes me want to know what he said.

“Good,” Alis tells me, bringing my focus back to her. “You need more spunky people in your life. I certainly can’t be left up to the task all by myself.”

I grin. That’s about as close as an Alis Stamp of Approval gets.

## xxxiv. an errand

There’s another party to plan for.

It’s funny how I, a self-declared hermit, have fallen into something of a party planning role for Hybern, disguised as an office admin. The only actual difference between my time as a temp and now is I’m also responsible for all the paperwork, but that’s okay. I’ve always done well with organization—in the workplace, however. If an interview ever required a home visit, I’d be screwed.

The week of Christmas, Hybern tower becomes a ghost town; the rest of Prythian follows suit. Even my little coffee shop closes for a few extra days to give their employees time to visit with family, while totally cool and fair and awesome, also totally sucks for me. Suriel becomes my sole source for coffee during this trying time.

“Any good gossip?” I ask her, admiring her short black dress, ripped tights, and platform shoes. It’s definitely a look, and she’s pulling it off.

“Nah,” Suriel passes me my drink, begins to make Janice’s. “Everyone interesting has gone out of town.”

“Wow, thanks.” She winks at my sarcasm. Today we’re on the ground floor. I watch the snow float to the ground; it’s coming in pretty fast on this bleak Monday morning. Snow covers the ground in a blanket, and the people passing by are unrecognizable under their many layers.

"Sure is lovely weather for a cloak," Suriel laments, and I can't help but grin at her.

#

“Thank you!” Janice chirps, practically snatching the coffee from my grasp. I release it, watching her down the molten liquid without flinching. We may not see eye to eye often, but the woman is definitely made of tough stuff.

I give her a nod, turn to head back towards the conference room where I’ve corralled the new batch of interns; I suppose Hybern’s learned interns are cheaper for this kind of menial labor. They were arguing about a color scheme when I left them for coffee; swatches of neutral off white, metallic silver (again), and pops of blue were pinned to the idea board right in front of them. I wanted to see how long it took them to realize the company had already picked one.

“OH, wait!” Janice calls after me, stopping me before I’m out of earshot. I scowled to myself before turning around, hiding my frown behind a curious smile. “I need you to run an errand for me, please.”

“Oh, okay.” I just finished getting coffee for her, but I suppose I also got my own out of the venture. I approach her desk. “What do you need?”

Janice slides a plain black folder over to me. There’s nothing written on the front, no picture, just inky black. That’s curious. “I need you to deliver this for me. I've got a lunch date, and I won’t be back before the deadline.”

Fabulous, I think to myself as I watch her slip into her coat, check her makeup in a compact mirror. I took an elevator to the ground floor to buy Janice coffee; so, she could leave for lunch. I force a pleased smile on my face.

“Will do!” I follow her out of the office, then realize I’ve missed a crucial detail. “Hey! Where does this need to go?”

Janice gives me a look that tells me I should just know where this mysterious, unlabeled document I’ve never seen before should belong. I struggle to maintain my oblivious smile.

“Upstairs. Executive lounge.” The elevator beeps, and Janice steps on. “Rhysand will be expecting you.”

Fantastic.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhysand Night, Chief Experience Officer

## xxv. asking for help

I idle for as long as I can, wasting time in the conference room with the interns. I return to find them excitedly discussing their purple and gray color scheme. They’re so proud to have come to a decision that I almost loathe breaking the bad news to them, but then someone suggests placing an order for flowers, and I have to step in. Paying for flowers in the wrong color would fall on my head, not these idiots'.

After setting them straight, I flip through a few emails and work on our budget report. Within minutes of leaving the office, Janice sends out an email explaining how she’s “suddenly not feeling well,” and like that, I understand her reasoning for giving me the folder. She never had any plans for returning from lunch; her vacation starts tomorrow if I remember correctly. Well, I guess it starts now.

It’s kind of exciting, though. I’m in charge for the rest of the week. Yet, it’s also terrifying because I’m _in charge for the rest of the week._

And that includes taking this damn folder upstairs.

#

When the doors slide open on the executive floor, I do my best to stifle the gasp of surprise that threatens. Luxury seeps from every nook and cranny of the lobby. Expensive seats lined in a deep brown leather bring shape to the waiting area, each placed just so to bring attention to the gilded glass table in the center. There’s no television, no magazines, just miles of slate gray wall accented with black and white prints of contemporary art.

There’s so much money in this space, I can’t help but compare it to my own simple apartment with Alis. It makes me afraid to touch anything, to breathe too loudly for fear of disturbing the peace. Surely, my racing heart is audible, echoing against the cold wooden floors, bouncing against the dimly lit ceilings.

A small cough draws my eye back towards a desk made of black marble; it lies front and center of the room, but my eye was too distracted by all the shapes and textures, drawn away from what’s right in front of me. Seated behind the desk, is a woman dressed in a fitted, elegant but straightforward sheath dress; I’m immediately envious of her ability to put herself together. The woman meets my eye, wearing a soft if wary smile. She must think I’m lost; I realize with a flush. I certainly think I might be.

“I—” My voice is so loud in the quiet of the space that I stop myself short, looking to her in apology. The woman, an office admin like myself I would wager, looks like she might laugh at my expression if she weren’t trying to remain silent.

I decide to simply hold up the black folder as a silent explanation, clutched in both hands, and the woman’s facial expression tells me precisely what it is that she is thinking. An eyebrow tells me: _You’re not Janice._

I shrug my shoulders in agreement. _No, I am not. _Then I scowl. _She sent me as her lackey._

The woman merely rolls her eyes, her dark hair tossing over her shoulder like strands of silk. Her brown eyes share my own feelings on the woman in question, it would seem.

“Uh,” I whisper, wincing at the feeling of breaking the silence, like throwing a pebble into a calm lake. I approach the desk instead, offering the folder to her. Perhaps, the woman will just accept the item from me, and I can go, get on with the rest of my day. Hopefully, my interns haven’t set anything on fire.

Instead of having to face Rhysand myself, this woman—his admin, I would guess—can be our go-between. Otherwise, I’ll be back up here, every day, for the remainder of the week. I’ll see _him every day._

The admin purses her lips in the direction of the folder, considering something. She doesn’t wear a name badge like the rest of the company, but I’ve noticed there are several people, higher up on the ladder who get away with the offense. Working for the CXO, I’d imagine she’s one of them. I’m too afraid to break our weird, silent conversation to just ask her what it is.

The woman beams at me, pointing one delicate, tanned finger in the direction of a dimly lit hallway. _Go that way._

Of course, it wouldn’t be so easy. I pout at her, but she merely flashes me a glimpse of her brilliant, white teeth, shooing me forward with her hands. I go but not without a silent complaint over my shoulder.

I think I hear the ghost of a laugh as I go.

#

The hallway isn’t very long, but it feels as if it goes on forever. More slate gray lines the path ahead of me, and I find myself tugging at the hem of my skirt in self-consciousness. Naturally, today would be the rare occasion that I don such a piece. I’ve been putting off laundry day for far longer than I care to admit.

Mor practically held me at gunpoint to coerce me into buying the black, below the knee pencil skirt. I tried to resist, but my friend only threatened to buy it for me against my will. Apparently, I am “totally hot in leather” and deserved to “treat myself.” I caved if only because I trusted her judgment, and that I was in desperate need of some new, professional clothes. Although, I still questioned the professionalism of such an item.

I stop at the door, located at the end of the hall. _Rhysand Night, Chief Experience Officer,_ is etched into the frosted glass panel of the door. I can’t help but wonder at how many billion-dollar deals the people in these tops floors are hammering out at this exact moment, while I huddle outside an office, tugging at my skirt.

I try not to think too hard on why I feel uncomfortable with my appearance now, faced with the prospect of seeing Rhysand. I can already picture his cunning, appreciative smile. The merciless delight of seeing me on edge.

I knock.

There’s scuffling sounds and the low hiss of swearing, and I’m immediately afraid that Rhysand has Amarantha in there. If an elevator doesn’t stop them, I don’t think a closed, locked door will either.

There’s a crash. _Fuck_!

Soft whispers come from the other side of the door. I hold my breath; if I flee, the girl at the desk will simply rat me out; no, I have to face my fears. The door opens with a click, and I’m surprised when that same receptionist smiles down at me with a curious expression.

There’s some more mumbling in the background, quiet and harried.

We stare at one another, one expression confused and the other enquiring. Without saying anything to me, recognition dawns on the woman’s face, but what I’d like to know is how she got here so quickly, without me.

“Your biweekly update is here,” the woman’s voice is smooth, amused, and teasing. “Mr. Night.”

A dramatic sigh. I think I hear the man in question, Rhysand, hiss to _send_ _her away_. I make an angry expression, but the woman simply opens the door wider and ushers me in. I arch a brow.

“How’s my sister faring out there?” The woman coos. “The bulls were out in full force this morning; I hope Cer’s found some peace.”

My mouth falls open in an O. Now that I look closer, the woman in front of me wears a gray dress, not black, and her hair is different. It makes me feel very silly. She grins at my face, then winks and slips out the door without another word.

I’m left standing at the front door of a large office. The same hardwood from the halls travels into here, leading towards a large, dark desk. The outer walls are made up of the large, tinted panes of glass that create the outside of Hybern’s tower, but the other two are painted a similar grey to the outside hall as if the resident didn’t care to personalize his space. There aren't any pictures of anything, anywhere.

“Janice,” Rhysand says the name with emphasis, false gaiety. His voice leads my gaze to him, where he leans over a sizeable black conference desk. It’s covered in piles of papers, and all of the chairs have been pushed against the walls. Utter mayhem. Hybern’s CXO looks unprepared, and a little unwilling, to host any board meetings right now.

He doesn’t look up from his work, his stare burning a hole into the wood. “These updates are really rather unnecessary. I trust your expert taste implicitly. Just send me an invitation, and I’ll sign the expense report. No daily debrief is required.”

Instead of revealing myself, I watch him argue with my boss, try and urge my superior to just _go away_. I suppose that means that Clare wasn’t the only one trying to catch the man’s eye. It leaves me with questions about what I’ve seen and heard of him and Amarantha. I also wonder why I was sent here if Janice's visits were all an elaborate plan to get some face time with the CXO.

The fact that Rhysand hasn’t looked up, that he has just assumed I am Janice, empowers me, and I remember the joy that Rhysand took in scaring me out of my skin at the gala those many weeks ago. I haven’t seen him since then and faced with him now, I’m surprised to feel… excited to see him and have another bickering match with him.

I approach his desk without introducing myself, without correcting him. My heels sound off against the floors, and Rhysand sighs, likely surrendering to the prospect of spending the afternoon with Janice and her flirting. It makes me smirk.

“Besides, I never saw you skipping upstairs to give Amarantha any folders. She's not your type, eh? That’s okay. She’s not a lot of people’s type,” Rhysand muses, running a hand through his hair as he leans over his work. I wonder what has him so flustered, thinking of the merger Suriel mentioned and the angry old man from the elevator. If someone disliked me so much, I’d be pretty messed up too.

“Hell, she’s barely—“ he cuts off, when I extend the report to him, jutting my hands out between us without a word; the folder nearly hits him in the face. It makes Rhysand look up, and I can feel the smug, victorious look on my face as he takes me in. I relish his surprise; something tells me he doesn’t feel that way very often.

“She’s barely what?” I ask, eyebrow raised in challenge. There’s a slightly bigger than small part of me that wants to know the end of that sentence.

“Feyre,” Rhysand breathes. I watch him drink me in, and if the flicker of interest in his eye makes me appreciate the skirt a little more, I’ll never admit it to Mor.

“Well?” I prompt. “Your girlfriend is barely what?”

My words cause something angry and hot to flash in his eyes, and I become nervous under his gaze, prepared to chuck the folder at him and flee. I think I’ll always be afraid of an angry man.

Yet, Rhysand says nothing, taking a moment to school his face, retract the burning emotion. Then he grins at me lecherously. The man leans across the table and into my space, brushing his warm fingers against my own as he takes the folder. He's so close I can feel his breath on my face, smell his citrus scent.

“Couldn’t stay away from me, could you?” He purrs. I feel my hackles rise.

I lean in closer, daring him to back down, but he holds fast. That delighted smile returns when our noses practically touch. “Careful. If that head of yours gets any bigger, they’ll have to widen all the doors.”

His grin turns feral. “I’ve been considering redoing the place. Care to help, Ms. Archeron? I hear you’re good at it.”

We both hold our ground. “Sure. My first recommendation would be to get rid of the egotistical pricks.”

“Even the ones pleasing to the eye?” Rhysand acts mock horrified, places a hand to his chest like a scandalized lady. “Some of them are so pretty.”

“There’s nothing pretty about a prick,” I explain.

That cunning smile twitches. “Well, perhaps you just haven’t seen the right one—yet.”

Rhysand turns my words against me effortlessly, and I balk, flustered by the implications. I hate to reveal the effect our back and forth has on me. I hate how easily he gets under my skin; I hate how I let him see it.

“Janice said you were expecting this,” I tell him and fold my arms across my chest protectively. “So, there you are; I’ll be going.”

“Wait!” Rhysand calls after me as I stride away. When I look back at him, the man appears torn. He checks the time on his watch before saying anything. “Would you like to stay for some coffee?”

The man waves apathetically towards the coffee bar, and I follow the movements. I want to say no, to turn him down and leave, to not have to see him again until tomorrow—or not at all. I could probably deliver the folder from now on via an intern, at least until Janice resumed her duties.

But Rhysand sounds… almost sad. I glance back at his harried appearance, jacketless, and wearing a rumpled shirt. He’s lonely, I realize with a jolt. It’s a feeling I’m well acquainted with. I think of the many times in my life that I’ve sat surrounded by people and felt utterly on my own, or the times I’ve spent with my closest and dearest people—a fiancé and a best friend—and felt like they didn’t know me at all.

“Uh, okay.” The words aren’t eloquent, but they’re something. I know what it is to ask for help, for company, when you feel you have neither. Even something small like this, a simple invite to join you, can be excruciatingly painful to do. To be turned down is crushing.

His smile lights up the room.


	17. Chapter 17

## xxxvi. Azriel

Things fall into a weird pattern for the next few days. With Janice gone, I mostly manage her business affairs and make sure that Jonathan, the youngest and most troublesome of the interns, doesn’t light another bin on fire.

_Get it? Trash fire? _Depends, how well do you understand _fired_, Jon_? Shit, I’m sorry. I take it back._

Mostly it's business as usual. I let the interns wrangle the party planning. I’ve never had any real interest in decorating before; as much as I used to love to create, to paint for hours, I never have really cared about streamers or the color of table cloths. When they become too much to bear, I go in pursuit of Suriel, buy my coffee, and listen to her gossip. By the time I return to our area, the interns are usually on the brink of tears or war, and I spend the remainder of the morning talking them down from their mental breakdowns. Then we go to lunch.

Afterward, I go upstairs to meet with Rhysand for the debrief. I almost send Jonathan upstairs with the folder and let Rhysand have the troublesome kid for an hour, but I remember the way he asked me to stay for coffee, and I worry, recalling the devastated look on his face when he thought I’d say no. So, I go, and I try to pretend that I don’t relish the way his eyes light up when I enter.

Cerridwen waves me through the lobby without a second thought, and Nuala is there to answer the door when I arrive. This time, there’s no muffled swearing, and Rhysand doesn’t try to get rid of me. He knows that I’m there, not Janice, and he’s ready to give me a hard time.

“Welcome back,” the CXO purrs with a smile. I roll my eyes at him, hand him the folder without preamble. Rhysand takes it and practically tosses it to the side without looking.

“I’ll have you know I worked very hard on that,” I growl at him. I didn’t, not really. The budget is pretty much done. I’ve arranged for the venue, the location, and the decorations already; Janice will return after Christmas to a beautifully planned party and take all of the credit.

Rhysand smirks at me. “Did you? I didn’t take you for the party planning type.”

I’m not. Yet, I’m not going to tell the man in front of me that; instead, I shrug at him, idling awkwardly by his desk. “Can I help you with anything else, Mr. Night?”

Rhysand’s violet eyes sparkle, and I’m left wondering if he just finds amusement in everything in life or if it’s merely something to do with me. “Please, we’re friends, Feyre Darling. You can call my Rhys.”

“My last name in Archeron,” I correct him, even though I know that’s not what he meant.

Rhysand chuckles. “Of course, it is.”

Our conversation falls into silence; internally, I battle the need to tug at the knit sweater I wear, fidget in his presence. Rhysand hasn’t exactly invited me to sit, but he hasn’t dismissed me either. I want to go; I want to stay.

I note how he checks the time; it’s precisely what he did yesterday, while I lingered to drink some overpriced coffee. Rhysand checked the clock, again and again, until I started to fear that I’d overstayed my welcome, outlasted his hospitality. When he began bouncing his knee, I gave him an excuse, said I need to get back to work.

The look of relief on his face confirmed my suspicions. I spent all of last night aggravating myself by dwelling on it.

“Perhaps, I should leave you to your work,” I begin, turning to go. Rhysand looks up from his wristwatch with a troubled expression.

“Would you like to stay for a cup of coffee?” He asks, uncertain. “I was just about to brew some.”

I’m confused, but it comes with such earnestness, glowing from deep within his blue eyes, that I can’t help but accept. I don’t call him out on his tricks, and he doesn’t point out that the cup is of the travel kind. We drink in silence, but sometimes we trade half-secrets, laced into snide banter. Mostly, Rhysand works, and I idle on my phone, hoping that he’ll explain to me why he wants me to stay.

**Azriel (Az)**

Age 26, Prythian

_I like to think that I have everything together. Then someone asks me what my name is, and I short circuit. What is my name? Who am I? _

_Oh, I am also a foodie._

I burst into laughter. Rhysand raises his brows at me from where he sits opposite side of the desk, but I ignore him in favor of giving the profile a thumbs up. Cassian and Mor have emboldened me. Where I once had succumbed to the thought that I didn’t need any friends, now I was collecting them, soaking up their good humor and enjoying their laughs.

“Something particularly funny this afternoon, Feyre Darling?” Rhysand drawls from amongst his mountains of papers. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since telling me that _blue was my color._ I’d flushed horribly and buried my nose into my phone.

I eye him curiously. The male in front of me looks totally different from the Rhysand Knight I’ve come to know, through elevator rides and heroic rescues. Rolled up sleeves reveal muscular forearms swathed in inky black swirls and shapes; they disappear under his sleeves, but return again, peeking out from under his undone collar.

He catches me staring and grins smugly; I flush and avert my eyes, looking back towards my phone. I click the button to message this Azriel, but I can’t find anything intelligent to say under the power of Rhys’s stare. I’m too distracted by the bright eyes watching me closely, gaze burning into my skin.

“Only your hair, Mr. Night,” I say after a while. It’s been too long since he’s asked the question for a comeback, but neither he nor I point it out. “You should get a comb for the office.”

He grins but returns back to his work. Then, later: “Is there really something wrong with my hair?”

#

That afternoon ends much the same as the first one. Harried and impatient, Rhysand checks his watch, refers to the clock on the wall for confirmation. I know I’ve overstayed my welcome; so, I rise from the comfortable chair and tell him my goodbyes.

“Please,” he says after I call him Rhysand, again. His voice is a little strained. “Call me, Rhys.”

He looks like he has more to say, but the look in his eye makes me nervous. I really need to get back to work anyway.

“Have a good afternoon, Rhys.”

## xxxvii. override

The third and final day, I pick a fight.

“Why invite me to stay if you just want me to leave?” I snap, hissing at Rhys when he starts to tap his fingers on the table. He’s been staring at the clock for most of the hour; we never even bothered talking about the font the interns managed to pick out. It took them all morning to rock-paper-scissors it out.

Both of us know that the folder is just a pretense; it’s nothing more than Janice’s fabricated reason to come up here and bother him for an hour or so each day. Rhys has only repurposed it for his own benefit now, and I’ve agreed to it. Gods know why.

Rhysand blinks back into focus, looking to me in astonishment. “Who said anything about you wanting to leave?”

He tries for that silky purr of his, but the words come out flat and unfeeling. Rhys is slipping away today; I can see it in his eyes. I never thought I’d wish for that wicked grin to come back, to feel the venomous sting of his words or the heat of his gaze. Is this how I look to others when I’m suffocating under the weight of all my feelings?

“You can’t possibly want me to stay,” I snap, feeling defensive. The fact that I feel that way at all makes me angrier. “All you do is watch the time. You’re dying for me to go.”

“On the contrary, Feyre Darling. I think you’re the one that doesn’t want to be here.” He gives me a look; the fire in his eyes has returned, and Rhys looks equally prepared to provide me with a fight of his own. Good. I’ll take anything other than his numbness.

“I stay, don’t I?” I defend. I’m surprised by how fiercely I want him to know that I _want_ to be here, even when three days ago, I never would have thought so. “Even as you spend the whole time mocking me by pretending to care about the merits of ‘Romantic’ versus ‘Rustic’ invitations.”

His smile is cunning. “Well, one wouldn’t want to come off too eager. And the other is so—pretentious. And we can’t have that!”

“Don’t make fun of me! This is my job—you pay me to do this.” Something flickers in Rhys’s eye. I stand preparing to go. “You asked me to stay for coffee. You make me think—I don’t know, that maybe you’re not a total ass, and then you just stare between the clock on the wall and your watch until I get the hint and leave.”

“Feyre—“

“I’ve got to get back to my interns,” I say, stepping back and leaving no room for further discussion. “Have a good rest of your afternoon, Mr. Night.”

I place the coffee down on the conference table and turn to leave without another word. Rhys’s eyes burn with things I don’t want to hear or see, so I keep my eyes trained to my feet. Lest I be ensnared by those ocean blues.

I slip out the door without resistance, and I’m torn between feeling thankful that Rhysand let me go with the last word—something most people of his rank would never let me have—and mad that he didn’t even try to apologize.

That he didn’t try to stop me.

It was kind of like he wanted to push me away.

Shit. And I fell right for it. You’d think I’d be better equipped to handle this sort of thing, having been on the other side and all that, but I’m struggling just as hard as anyone else who’s ever tried to pull someone from the edge, which is just a wild concept. I barely know this man.

In the hallway, a set of heels has me looking up and right into my nightmare. Amarantha struts down the halls, each step falling like a clap of thunder. She’s dressed in a little tight black dress; the sleeveless neckline plunging far beneath office-appropriate levels, jacket tossed over one arm like she could care less who sees all that perfect, pale skin. It’s only two in the afternoon, but Amarantha looks dressed for a cocktail party.

Those emerald eyes snap to me, and I flick my gaze away quickly, stare hard at the wood floors, and pretend to be invisible. I’m reminded again that I told myself to stay away from these two. I shouldn’t be here.

Amarantha Hybern doesn’t say anything to me, but her gaze burns my skin, even as she walks past me. I have to duck to the wall to avoid touching her, afraid that I might turn to dust if we make contact. There’s a brief moment where I think I’m worried she might reach out and grab me, but that’s just ridiculous, isn’t it?

When the door to Rhysand’s office clicks shut, I dart the rest of the way down the hallway. I’m thankful I dressed to move today. My loafers are silent, keeping my panic a secret.

Nuala waits at the end of the hall around a bend, eyes wide with concern. She relaxes when she sees me but takes my hand without a word and practically drags me to the elevator. Her twin sister, Cerridwen, waits in the doorway to the lift, back leaning against the protesting doors. She sags in relief at the sight of us, and ducks out of the door as soon as Nuala ushers me in.

“Take a coffee break outside the building,” Nuala orders in that same silky voice from the first time I met her. It’s only the lines in her face that give her worry away. “Then, take another elevator to the 43rd floor.”

“IT?” I ask, confused.

Nuala’s face leaves no room for questions. “Then, you’ll take the elevators on the east side to your level.”

“I hear the cameras become glitchy there around a quarter to the hour,” Cerridwen muses, pointed.

Nuala nods. “Don’t go a minute before then and head straight back to your office. Understood?”

Something in those twin pairs of eyes makes me agree. I don’t think they’re trying to hurt me, con me; I’ve seen the familiarity with which they interact with Rhys, and even mad at him, I don’t think he’d try to get me into trouble.

“Okay,” my voice gives away my uncertainty, my confusion. The sisters look to each other, communicating silently. They back away once satisfied, allow the elevator to close me in. It sets off at its breakneck speed, and I realize we aren’t stopping. There’s a weird light on the dash, in addition to the blue glow of the 1.

Override it reads.

The twins overrode the door, sent it hurtling straight to the ground to get me out. Am I really in such trouble for being on the executive’s lounge? For delivering a folder per my orders? For doing my job?

I think of the coffee of the cup I abandoned on the table.

Amarantha’s cold, green eyes flash behind my eyelids.

No, I’m in trouble for something much more serious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will start picking up shortly! Sorry if it seems slow paced!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre gives a gift.

## xxxviii. Friday

The next day I send an intern upstairs with the folder. I have no desire to go back up there, and it would feel like testing fate to do so. The memory of Rhys’s defeated gaze makes me reconsider, but it’s the memory of being face to face with Amarantha all alone that makes my decision.

After lunch, I interrupt a heated debate over flower vases, and like the mature adult that I am, I call out, “Nose goes!”

I place my finger to my nose with a smile; at first, the interns are too busy arguing to notice. One by one, they glance to me, trying to wage where my standing is between the metal ornamentation versus the glass; when they see me standing there, one finger to my nose, they copy me, if not without a second’s hesitation.

Jonathan, of course, is the last to notice.

He jumps to cover his nose but is far too late. A few of the others heckle him for loosing, but I simply wave him after me, walking over to my desk and handing him the folder. Jonathan blanches when he sees what it is.

Everyone is afraid of Rhysand. _Everyone._

“Just run this up there and drop it off,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t have to stay at all,” I add, trying not to blush at the fact that they all are well aware of the fact that I have been doing just that. “You can probably just drop it off at the desk and come back.”

Jonathan looks as if I’ve just signed his death warrant. The young man looks to me for support; I think he’s praying I’ll laugh and tell him it’s all a big joke. When it becomes clear that it isn’t, he drops his head and marches off to the elevators, like a man on his way to the noose.

It reminds me once again that I need to remember who Rhysand is, what people think of him. He’s dangerous.

Yet, I can’t help picturing the defeated look on his face these past few days, nor can I forget the way he always perked up for our afternoon meeting. Then I recall the burning expression in Amarantha’s face, and I decide to erase those violet eyes from my memory altogether.

While I wait for Jonathan to return, I make to check my email, but the computer isn’t working, which is odd. I was only just using the thing, before I stepped into the conference room and checked in with the interns, found a volunteer to go see Rhysand. I click at the mouse and tap at the keyboard for a while, but nothing happens. It’s a problem for Monday, I suppose.

The intern returns quickly. I think he was gone all of fifteen minutes. Jon’s face is stricken like he’s seen something terrifying that he’ll never be able to forget. I offer him a kind smile as he passes by my desk, but the young man darts by and reclaims his place at the conference table without a word.

With Christmas over the weekend, the office is closing early. We all pack our bags before the usual lunch hour and prepare to leave; I hand out little gift bags to the interns, filled with chocolates and candy canes. They give me grateful smiles and wish me goodbye as I make way to grab my purse from my desk where I’d left it. I find it on the ground, having toppled over and dropped to the ground. Figures.

Bag in hand, I’m the last to leave the floor. It seems as if I always am, and Ben, the security guard, offers to escort me out. I thank him with a smile but decline. I have one more stop to make.

## xxxix. a gift for a friend

I find Suriel on the 25th floor, wearing a scowl and a Santa hat. It takes all of my self-control not to break into a fit of giggles at the sight of her. Instead, I approach the cart with a wide grin and sparkling eyes; she turns those pale eyes on me in warning, daring me to say something smart.

“You’re a little early, aren’t you Santa?” The mirth in my voice is unmistakable.

Her dark eyebrow raises in a warning. “Watch yourself, Archeron.”

As always, the omniety of her tone sobers me. “Shit, you’re terrifying, you know that, right?”

A flash of sharp teeth.

“Right,” I hold out a red gift bag to her. The text on the outside reads, in a classic Christmas font: _HAPPY WHATEVER DOESN’T OFFEND YOU_. Perhaps that in itself makes the bag offensive, but I think I’m safe with Suriel.

“I come with an offering, Oh Wise One.”

Suriel eyes the bag with a hesitant curiosity, gaze flickering to my face and trying to get a read on me. I think she suspects some kind of trap as if she takes it, Suriel will have to tell me all of her best secrets. “What is it?”

I shake the bag at her, and the tissue paper inside crinkles. “You have to open it to find out.”

The coffee girl reaches out towards it, fingers tentative. I give her a reassuring smile, let the bag go with ease. The look on Suriel’s face when she pulls out the bundle of silken, black fabric makes the late-night trip worth it.

I’d gone out the night before last, eager to find something to do other than stew in my thoughts and emotions. Alis was gone, having left for her vacation right after our dinner at the coffee shop, and I knew that Mor was out celebrating with her girlfriend—Andy, I believed she called her. I needed to meet her soon.

Yet, the stress of trying to figure out the puzzle of Rhysand drove me out of the apartment. Bundled up in my warmest coat and scarf, I’d taken a walk to the bus stop and headed for that quirky part of town I liked so much. I suppose I should have gone the night of our Christmas dinner, having been so close, but I wouldn’t regret having an excuse to get out. I’d always found that moving helped me when my thoughts were too much.

The cloak was easy to find, and the clerk I’d asked for help from had been somewhat surprised when I asked about it. The black fabric lined with silver thread weighed heavy in my hands. It would be warm enough, I thought, and it looked just like Suriel.

“Feyre Archeron,” Suriel’s eyes are wide with surprise and joy. I’ve never seen such genuine emotion from her. An expression lacking sarcasm or hostility. “This is amazing.”

I smile happily. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I _love _it,” Suriel tells me. She stares at the cloak in awe; then, she turns her sharp gaze on me. I swallow. “I’ve heard whispers—about where you’ve been getting your afternoon coffee fix from.”

I gape at her. How could she know that? She’s going to poison my coffee, isn’t she?

“Uh, Suriel, I—”

“Some would say it’d be wise for you to stay away from him,” Suriel begins without specifying who she is talking about, but we both know it’s Rhysand. She hands me a coffee; I didn’t even see her make it. “But I think he’ll look out for you, keep you safe from all the nasty people around here.”

“Isn’t he one of the nasty people?” I hold the coffee to my lips, raising my brows at her.

Suriel shoots me a look, unfazed. “I think you know that answer better than any of us, Feyre Archeron.”

## xl. invasion

Suriel’s words follow me all the way home. What did she mean, that Rhys would keep me safe? What did I need protection from? The question makes me think of Amarantha. Gods know how I’ve managed to slip under her radar thus far, but I fear that my time may be up now. Before, coming across her or Rhys was merely chance, and I could try to argue my office visits as something similar, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think that that would work.

I’d heard rumors, of course, on the rare occasions I took my lunch in the cafeteria or a lounge with the rest of Hybern’s employees. Amarantha was nothing more than a mean girl who managed to carve herself a spot out at the top of the food chain, thanks to her father. She was next in line for the throne, so to speak, Hybern would always be operated by someone _named_ Hybern.

But it’s Clare Beddor’s voice that pops into my brain and makes me genuinely concerned for my well-being, my job security.

_Amarantha is on the warpath_, Clare had said. _I don’t know what I possibly could have done to make her an enemy._

I had a feeling I knew what that was, now, and I was filled with immense guilt at the prospect of having put someone else through the terror that Amarantha held within her. I should have just owned up to who I was at the very beginning, rather than send Rhys on a wild goose chase through the hundred floors of Hybern. But I was scared.

And I still didn’t have a reason not to be.

Especially when I return home to my apartment and find the door ajar, hanging by a hinge.

My first thought is that I’ve got the wrong apartment, that I somehow managed to waltz right past my door or that I got off on the wrong level. I’ve done more ridiculous things in my lifetime. My second thought is that Alis is home early, which is even more ridiculous because if this really is my door hanging on its hinges, busted open, the last thing I would want is for Alis to have been home—to be back. 

I dial her anyway. 

“Feyre?” Alis answers in the muted, worried tone she always has when someone calls unexpectedly. “What’s up?”

I listen to the boys screaming in the background; she’s not here. I feel bad for interrupting her, worse for what I’m about to say. “Were we expecting someone at the apartment?”

“No, what do you mean?” Alis shushes a young, tenor voice that draws near.

“Uh, nothing. I just thought I heard someone knock. Never mind,” I say quickly backtracking. I need to call the cops—report this to the landlord. “I’ll let you go. Have fun! Miss you!”

“Feyre?“ I hang up before she can say anything else.

I battle internally with myself, trying to decide what to do. Before I can choose, the choice is taken from me. The pad of footsteps tells me that someone is still in my apartment. Shit, whoever did this is still _here_.

I dart away from the door, hiding around a corner and trying to control my trembling. Why does stupid stuff like this always happen to me? Can’t a girl catch a break?

The footsteps draw near, and I dial emergency services, not that I know how much help they can be in the moment. I’m just about to press call when I catch sight of a flash of crimson hair almost more familiar to me than my own.

I step out from around the corner, mouth agape.

“Lucien?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Feyre: Happy Whatever Doesn't Offend You! Whatever you celebrate, or even if you don't.  
As always, thank you all for reading! I appreciate you all. :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another flashback, lovelies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I've no excuse except for that I took a nap the other day and woke up with an idea **completely** unrelated to any of my current WIPs. So, I've been writing, just not the right writing!
> 
> Anyway, a friendly-obligatory reminder about all the warnings. I've added a few. This is a flashback; we all know what that means.

## xli. realizations

I realized I didn’t want to marry Tamlin the day that the pregnancy test came back positive.

I used all of my stealth to sneak that test into our apartment. It took some serious planning; I’d stopped at a corner store with the excuse of needing emergency feminine supplies. Lucien and Tamlin had just grimaced and obliged. My fiancé would later tell me to keep those matters private, but I needed them to think they knew what was in there; so, they wouldn’t mess with the bag and see the truth.

I took the test in the middle of the night, after a particularly engaging round of sex. Tamlin had been _ecstatic _when I’d taken the lead, asked for more; I was never really enthusiastic about being intimate with him in those days. The fire had gone out—was strangled into nothing without the oxygen to breathe.

I was _pregnant_, and it was Tamlin’s. We would be forever bound in a way that no divorce decree could ever break. Connected by blood, with a child, no way to escape. I had a panic attack right there on the bathroom floor, clutching a life-changing discovery in my hands like it was some kind of curse.

I kept it a secret. My morning sickness was written off as my regular nausea, stemming from my depression—from my “inability to just _deal_.” I didn’t go to the doctor, and I threw out the pregnancy test by hiding it in the bottom of a cereal box. I felt ridiculous going through such lengths, but I was also desperate. I couldn’t risk Tamlin or Lucien finding the test, and I was afraid that if the maid saw it, she would tell him. Tamlin had spies everywhere.

I didn’t know what I was going to do or how I was going to get out of it. And I wanted out of it. There was no way I could raise a child with the man I slept beside at night; I couldn’t bear the thought of how he would control a child, manhandle it until it became some distorted version of what he wanted in a child.

I needed to run. I wanted an abortion. I was in no position to bear a child, even without Tamlin’s shadows and expectations looming over us. I could barely take care of myself.

But how? How would I manage either of those things? I was watched so closely by everyone.

So, I waited. And I hoped the opportunity to slip away would provide itself.

## xlii. Ianthe

Time passed slowly, like the water dripping from the guest bath faucet. Slowly, constantly, tortuously. Sometimes I caught myself staring at the thing as it dripped, dripped, dripped. My mind would go somewhere else, and I would just stand there, watching it.

I still had no answer to my situation, and I had no one to ask for help. Lucien would tell Tamlin, and I was too ashamed to go to Alis and beg for her mercy. Assuming I could manage to get within ten feet of her without Tamlin knowing. Why would Alis help me? After I so indignantly dropped her friendship?

And then there was Ianthe, a lot of help that one was.

Tamlin’s new secretary planned our lives for us, day by day. I had to call her to arrange lunch plans with my fiancé, and Tamlin frequently had the perky woman purchase my clothes for different events. I wanted to feel weird about it, but I appreciated not having to go out and figure out what was in season. She did everything for us, and Tamlin always had her at his constant disposal, coming and going from the apartment or office; she went on all his business trips with him. Had I been like that? Before?

No, Ianthe would definitely turn me over to my fiancé. She practically worshipped the ground that Tamlin walked on, doe-eyed, and eager to please. I remember back when I was like her in my fiancé's presence. Funny how Tamlin replaced me with a shinier, happier version when things started going downhill.

No, I couldn’t ask Ianthe for help, and I was embarrassed to turn to Alis. Yet, I didn’t trust Lucien either. I had no one. When did that happen?

## xliii. An accident

We get in a car accident one terrible, icy winter day. He was driving, and I was _in one of my moods again_. We were fighting; at least, I think we were fighting. Usually, Tamlin just yelled at me until I broke down and made him feel guilty.

The roads were icy, and he was distracted, ranting to me about how he _felt unloved_.

It was simple, quick. The car slid on a patch of ice; Tamlin lost control. We crashed into another vehicle going way too fast; there were three people in the other vehicle, killed on impact. The passenger side, my side, took the worst damage in our car. Tamlin walked away unscathed. Tamlin always walks away unscathed.

He found out I was pregnant when the doctors told him that I’d miscarried, apologized to him for the loss.

I spent weeks in the hospital, recovering. I'd nearly broken my neck, the doctor said. The trauma cost me the baby, he told me. Did I need to speak with someone about it, he asked.

In the hospital, Tamlin was the most devoted partner that mankind had ever seen. He made sure that I had _everything_ I could want, but I could see the glint in his eye that told me he was upset with me. I saw the way his jaw flickered in the silence between us. When it got to be too much for him, Tamlin called in my sisters, but I only remember glimpses of them, of my time there.

Mostly, I slept.

I remember wishing that I had died that day, in the crash. Especially after finding out that Tamlin had paid a simple, but generous, settlement to get out of the vehicular manslaughter charges. Why should Tamlin and I go on planning a wedding neither of us wanted, while the families of those killed in our destructive path, planned funerals, paid for it with our blood money?

And I knew Tamlin wanted out, knew he was done with me, but he was too stubborn to give me up.

## xliv. I’m so sorry

If I thought things were bad before the accident, life with Tamlin was simply unbearable after it.

The love of my life started to throw things, yelling and screaming at me when I failed him. It made me skittish around him, and that only made him more upset. _How could you be afraid of me? Don’t you love me?_

I didn’t know how to get out. So, I tried to fix things instead.

I found him that night in his study, sorting through emails on his laptop. He hardly looked up when I crossed the room and grasped the back of one of the brown leather chairs with both hands.

This was how we lived now, in between the yelling; we existed together in silence.

“Do you need something?” Tamlin asked after a while, likely irritated by my hovering presence.

“Uh, I just wanted—I wanted to talk with you,” I stammered, afraid suddenly of what the outcome of this conversation would be.

“Alright,” Tamlin told me, tone bored. He continued to type away at his laptop, working on the business rather than giving me his full attention. I waited patiently, hovering at the desk until his green eyes slid back to me.

“What is it?” Tamlin prompted, clearly annoyed at having to ask me again. But I wasn’t going to just talk to deaf ears. If I was going to fix this, if we were going to fix this, then I needed Tamlin to listen to me, to work with me.

“I, uh,” I swallowed, trying to push down my nerves. With a jolt, I realized then that Tamlin—he scared me. I was frightened of him, of his reaction. I think I already knew how he was going to react to everything, but I was still clinging to some small shred of hope that we could make everything alright. We could fix this. I could fix this.

“Feyre, I’m very busy,” Tamlin explained, glancing back to his laptop.

“I can’t take this anymore,” I blurted the words out quickly, rushed. It’s not how I wanted to go about the conversation, but there it was. The cold, hard truth hung in the air between us. Tamlin was deathly still.

“Do you not love me anymore?” He asked me, immediately, and I blanched. Here I was trying to ask for help, and yet, Tamlin turned it all around on me, made it about him. “Do you not want to marry me anymore?”

“No, Tamlin! That’s not what I was trying to say,” I plead with him, stepping around the desk to get nearer to him. Like a cornered animal, my fiancé rose from his desk chair and backed away from me, unwilling to let me touch him. It hurt like hell.

“It’s just—I can’t live like this, Tam,” I reached out in supplication, but my efforts were met with silence and cold eyes of moss. “I can’t spend my whole life cooped up in this apartment, wasting my days away with nowhere to go—”

“We’ll move then,” Tamlin told me like it was an obvious solution. “We can purchase something bigger; I'll let you pick out whatever you want. I saw a house for sale the other day you'd like; big, with a yard—”

“You’re not _listening to me,”_ my voice went sharp, with hysteria or anger, I’m not sure. “This, our way of living, doesn’t work for me anymore. I, I feel like I’m wasting away, dying in here, and I need you to—”

“You think that I’m _killing you?”_ I’d never heard Tamlin’s voice so angry. The sound of his voice, so low and warning, made my blood go cold; my heart raced in my chest as I waited for the rest of what he had to say. “That’s rich coming from you.”

My heart went still; guilt flooded my senses, blurring my vision, and turning down my hearing. I think Tamlin might have said something more, but I wasn’t listening, couldn’t hear him.

“What is that supposed to mean?” My voice was deathly calm, calmer than I’d ever heard it.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Tamlin’s green eyes burned with implications as he growled the words at me. He leaned in so close to me that our noses practically touched. “You’re one to talk about dying, considering you killed our child.”

I never understood what people meant when they said something felt like having a bucket of cold water dumped on them. At that moment, I realized the sensation with perfect clarity. A chilly feeling swept through my body, horrified that anyone would ever accuse anyone of something so cruel and terrible. Another part of me was hit with the thought that it wasn't _entirely_ false.

“Were you even going to tell me?” Tamlin looked victorious at having stunned me into silence. He pushed onward. “Or were you just going to come home one day with a baby and surprise me?”

“At least you’re self-aware enough to acknowledge how little you pay attention to me,” I snapped back. It made Tamlin stand a little straighter. “I probably could have broken my water right in front of you, and you wouldn’t have noticed. Except to tell me to clean up my mess.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll never know now, will we?”

I knew even then that I should leave it be, let him have his little temper tantrum or fear the whole thing blowing up in my face, way out of proportion, but I was done submitting to him or anyone. I was done just letting Tamlin have his way and suffering by myself in silence.

“Look,” I was surprised to find myself so calm. “I wasn’t the one driving that night. I wasn’t the one speeding down a mountain road in the middle of an ice storm. I didn’t kill _anyone_.”

The words hung in the air between us; Tamlin looked down on me with no expression. I think it made me the most nervous that I couldn’t get a read on what was going on in that head of his. There was a time when either one of us could read the others thoughts effortlessly. I don’t know when that changed.

It was the calm before the storm.

Seconds later, Tamlin drove his fists into the desk, knocking the over-priced laptop to the floor and scattering all of his work. When I reached for him, wanting to stay his hand and calm him down, my fiancé reacted to me, shrugging me off of him violently, knocking his elbow into me to get me to back up, and then pushing me down with both hands.

Before my brain could even process what happened, Tamlin was kneeling beside me, eyes big and afraid. My ears were ringing, so I couldn’t hear his quick apologies. When Tamlin reached for me to examine the bruise that was coming in where I'd knocked my head, I flinched and scooted away from him.

“You—you pushed me,” I accused him.

“No!” Guilt flooded his features. “I mean, I didn’t mean to do it, Feyre. You know, I’d _never hurt you_. Gods, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I did that.”

I’m so sorry, Tamlin said.

_I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry._

## xlv. Except He Wasn’t

From then on out, things were… different between us. I couldn’t erase the sensation of his strong arms throwing me to the ground, and Tamlin couldn’t wipe the moment from my mind, no matter how many bouquets of flowers he sent.

When he got over begging for forgiveness, Tamlin would demand it. _I’ve done so much for you_, and _why aren't you more thankful?_ Those were his mantras, and I didn’t know how to object to them. Tamlin had done a lot for me; I just don’t think he realized how much of it was _to me_ as well.

The yelling and throwing of things increased. Tamlin was always prone to raising his voice to get what he wanted; he didn’t understand that someone could be just as effective without raising their voice. It was as if that day in the office showed him what a lovely outlet the destruction of our property was for his anger.

I told myself it was okay; that if I did better, I’d stop bringing out the worst in him. I clung to that fact, while I hid in my room—not ours—and listened to his rage in the living room.

## xlvi. It Didn’t Stop

Near the end, I often found myself hiding. Tamlin would just get into these moods, and I knew the best thing I could do was stay out of his way. Sometimes, it felt like looking at me was enough to set him off. I’d squirrel myself away anywhere to keep out of his way: the second bedroom, a bathroom, the balcony in the middle of a blizzard.

Afterward, Tamlin would coax me out of wherever with _I’m sorry’s _and _I love you’s_. He’d hold me gently while I sobbed, and then he’d tuck me into my own bed, separate from his, before going to sleep himself.

When I woke up for breakfast, he’d be gone. Ianthe would hand-deliver a new set of china the next day, chipper and purposefully oblivious to the hole in the wall or the pieces of fractured glass she saw in the trashcan. Usually, on those days, the secretary would offer me smiles and ask for tea; she would sit there and ask my opinions on lace versus beading. Belatedly, I realized she was planning _my_ wedding.

But she’d never ask if I was okay. And if she knew what was going on, Ianthe never tried to help get me out—her actions were always for Tamlin’s benefit, to encourage me to stay.

I was trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s flashback time, again. There is one more part to this, but it won’t come for a few more chapters, I think. Next chapter we’ll get back to figuring out what Lucien is doing breaking into Feyre’s apartment. ;)
> 
> Have a good New Year's!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. As you might remember, I started this as a short-fic, but that didn’t happen. (It seems to be a pattern of mine.) Anyways, I pressed pause on writing this next part, so that I could hammer out the rest of the story. I am happy (and a little sad) to announce that I've completed the outline. I’ve even written a few words for the ending. Enjoy!

## xlvii. Lucien Vanserra

“Lucien?”

Lucien Vanserra’s head snaps up at the sound of his name, russet eyes wide with surprise. He spots me quickly, and the expression on his face morphs between surprised to relief to concern. That tan forehead of his wrinkles in thought; Lucien never had a very good thinking face.

“Feyre?”

We stare at each other for a moment; neither of us is sure about where we stand. The last time we saw one another, things were tense, to say the least. Lucien saved my life by letting me go, of that, I am entirely certain, but I also know that he played complacent with my suffering much too long. Longer, perhaps, than I realized.

Lucien takes a jerky step towards me, and I back away, hesitant. I don't trust the fact that he is here, now, with my door kicked open.

“It’s really you—Gods, it’s been ages,” Lucien continues, running a hand through his long red locks, but he doesn’t come any closer, respecting my boundaries. I can see the tension in his body, in his arms, as if he’d like to wrap me into a hug, to embrace me like I allow Cassian to do without a second thought.

“Luc,” I choke on his nickname. _My_ nickname for him. “What—why are you here?”

There’s no imagining the way Lucien's face falls or the way he drops his hands away to his sides, no longer reaching out for me. My heart stammers in my chest, panic seizing me. There’s one thing about Lucien, which I dread: wherever he goes, he's likely following Tamlin.

“Uh, we’re—that is, Spring Corp,” Lucien looks pale. His skin contrasts vividly with his red hair. “It’s merging with Hybern.”

The words strike me like a physical blow, and I make no attempt to hide my flinch or the next step that I take backward. Lucien grimaces, but he doesn’t speak, waits for my next question. His posture tells me he's worried I might collapse. I'm not too confident that I won't.

“But why are you _here_?” I ask.

“Because,” he swallows thickly. Lucien’s eyes flick around the hallway, looking for some unseen enemy. I pray that he isn’t waiting for Tamlin to show up. Maybe I need to call the police anyway. I can’t be sure that Luc will be able to protect me twice.

“That bloody bitch hasn’t told Tamlin that you work for Hybern yet,” Lucien hisses. “And either she’s waiting for the right time to use the leverage, or she’s playing at an even bigger, dumber game than I thought.”

“And you’re here to what?” I begin carefully. “To investigate for her? For _him_?”

Lucien’s eyes flash with anger at the accusation, as if to say how dare I doubt his loyalty so. But I don’t have it in me to feel bad; Lucien used to meddle in my relationship with his best friend often and not for my benefit. My eyes fall to my door, broken behind his back.

“So, you decided to kick in my fucking door and have a look?" I snarl at him, feeling defensive. "Ever heard of knocking?’

“_That_ was already like that when I got here,” Lucien explains, a little too quick for my tastes. The earlier concern and fear return to his face, and I begin to doubt my convictions that he has something to do with this.

Lucien runs his hands through his hair again. It's his worse tell; Lucien is nervous. “I thought I’d read the address wrong or some shit, but then I realized that I didn’t, and—”

He breaks off, and his gaze goes far away from us. When it returns, the look on his face makes my blood run cold. “Feyre, who have you been pissing off now?”

“What do you mean?” My voice is a little shrill, confused. My hackles rise. "Why does this have to be _because _of something I did?"

My old friend swallows and waves me forward with him. I let Lucien lead me into my apartment, warily, and the scene before me makes my blood run cold.

_STAY AWAY._

The words are written in half-dried red paint; the color runs down the words, creating rivets of red that trail their way down to the white baseboards. The extra paint pools at the bottom. Like blood.

“Who would do this, Feyre?” Lucien asks from the doorway, having not been invited in. “When I got here, I couldn't _not _come inside. I was afraid… I was worried that I’d find you here. Hurt.”

Like before. The meaning rings clear in my mind.

I stare at the wall for longer than necessary. I’d like to say that I have no idea who would leave such a message, but I can’t shake a pair of eyes, sharp like emeralds, from my mind. But that’s crazy, isn’t it?

I turn at last from the wall, ignoring the way Lucien’s eyes follow me. The living room is trashed, as well as the kitchen, and my instincts tell me that the bedrooms will be similar. There’s no way I’ll be able to hide this from Alis; she’ll be home in a matter of days, just after the new year begins.

“Feyre,” Lucien says my name, and I realize that I didn’t answer him. I grimace.

“I have an idea, but you’re going to think it’s crazy,” I tell him, walking over to the bookshelf. I have to pick my way through the rubble; it’s been turned over, spilling its contents everywhere. A few of the books have been damaged, tossed about with no regard for their sanctity. Amongst the rubble, I catch a glimpse of plastic; it’s kind of familiar. I grab at it.

“You? A crazy idea? Never,” Lucien drawls, hands in his pockets. Good to see that some things never change.

I roll my eyes despite the seriousness of the situation and hold up the name badge in my hands. It looks like the twins weren’t able to protect me, despite their very best efforts. Who knows, maybe they did. Perhaps this could have all been a lot worse. It may not have just been paint.

“I think… Amarantha Hybern did it,” I say, and Lucien’s eyes bug out of his face. “Or she had her lackey do it.”

“Why on earth would _Amarantha_ _Hybern_ have your apartment trashed, Feyre?” Lucien gapes. His green eyes dart towards the lettering on the wall, then shoot back to me. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but why does she even know your name?”

“Because I’ve made friends with people, she’d rather I stay away from.” My answer is vague, and I try to ignore the feeling that it’s perhaps a bit of a lie by omission. Lucien doesn’t need or deserve the full explanation. He’s the one I found snooping around my looted apartment.

“Just what have you been up to while you’ve been away?” Lucien asks, aiming for a dry tone, but I think he fails a little bit. He's worried; so, am I.

I shoot him a look at his choice of words, anyway, as if I just went on vacation. Like I’d just taken a little trip and would be back to Tamlin and his prison soon. Fuck that.

“Getting into trouble,” I tell him with a smirk.

"Of _course, _you have." Lucien laughs, but the noise comes out strained and a little crazy. “And how are you certain? That it was Amarantha that did all of this?”

I hold up the name badge in my hands, brandishing my proof. Mr. Attor’s face sneers in Lucien’s direction, and the man in front of me goes pale, swearing brutally when he recognizes the picture.

“Fey,” he begins with a swallow. “I’m very, _very_ happy you stayed late at work tonight.”

Fear clogs my throat, and it takes a moment for me to be able to speak. “Me, too.”

## xlviii. a phone call

Lucien tells me not to file a police report, explains that Hybern and his daughter have a few select cops in their pocket. Calling in the crime, would only bring more trouble upon me, Lucien explained, and the statement will go missing, anyway. I'm so angry that he's right.

I’m surprised when Lucien lingers, helping me to clean up the mess that Attor made of my home. The name badge sits on the counter, taunting me with the man’s horrid face. Once the holiday is over, I’ll turn it in to lost and found, tell the office I found it out on the sidewalk. It seems like a foolish mistake for someone committing a crime to make.

I don’t imagine he’d have done it on purpose, and I'm more than a little worried that he might try to come back for it.

“Do you,” Lucien trails off, considering his words. “Would you like me to stay with you? Or you could come to my apartment? Andras is out on some business trip, but he won’t mind.”

Lucien’s admission surprises me. I’d known, of course, of the man’s sexuality. He’d been able to be open to me about it in a way that he never was capable of with his best friend, Tamlin. Yet, I didn't know he was seeing anyone, but it had been a while since the last time Lucien and I had spoken. I had to say that it was brave of him to live with another guy, as partners. It'd never bothered me, but it'd always been a big point of contention between Tamlin and me.

I wondered if Tamlin knew about it.

“He knows,” Lucien reads my thoughts. “He just pretends he doesn’t. You know how he chooses to see only what he wants.”

I grimace, and Lucien goes pale. I tell him it’s alright before he can burst into a string of apologies for bringing it up. It's not something that I want to dwell on.

“Uh, I’ll just get a hotel,” I tell him, unwilling to intrude on Lucien’s personal life. Besides, stepping into my old friend’s apartment seems an awful lot, like taking a step backward and towards my past life. I don’t want that. What if Tamlin were to show up?

I swallow. “I’ll be fine.”

Lucien wants to disagree. I can see it in his face, but he has the presence of mind not to.

“I’ll rig the door shut when we go,” Lucien tells me, informing me that he won’t leave the apartment until I do. I have to fight the smile that comes at his protectiveness, have to remind myself that I'm _mad_ at him.

Lucien nods towards the door. “I’ll come by in the morning and fix it.”

The last part isn’t an offer, and I don’t know anything about fixing doors, so I let him have the victory. His smile is tentative.

#

The hotel is survivable and cheap. It takes a lot to make my skin crawl after growing up in the shambles of an apartment my family and I used to live in. The thought makes me think of Elain and Nesta; they’ve been on my mind ever since Cassian brought it up.

I try to ignore the train of thought, flipping through selfies of Cassian and exchanges a few messages with Azriel. We'd started to get to know each other a while ago. He's quiet, doesn't text much back, and his humor is dry as hell. I've almost misread several messages from him, interpreted them to be cruel or matter of fact.

I look forward to seeing him in the future, in person.

> **AZRIEL @ 8:23PM**
> 
> Are you still in town by chance?
> 
> What are your Christmas plans?
> 
> **FEYRE @ 9:09PM**
> 
> Yes, I am. Had to work. Why?
> 
> I just plan on eating Chinese and watching reruns.

Azriel usually takes a while to respond, like he's thinking very hard about whatever he has to say. It leaves me idle, and my thoughts drift back towards my sisters.

Giving in, I dial an old, familiar phone number and listen to the sound of it ringing. It’s impulsive of me to do so, and with a pang, I hope she hasn’t changed her number. I regret the decision almost as soon as the first digital ring echoes back at me, and I'm about to hang up and say forget it when I hear her.

“Speak.” Nesta’s never been a people person. It’s of no surprise that that wouldn’t change when it came to phone protocol.

I freeze, a strange emotion washing over me. Relief. Longing. Two things I never thought I’d feel towards Nesta.

“Hello?” My sister’s voice is rough with impatience.

I try to speak, but I cannot find my voice, I don’t know where it’s run off to in my moment of need. What do I say to my long-lost sister? To someone who I haven’t spoken to in over a year? What if she isn’t happy to hear from me? Or what if she yells at me? What if she'd rather I stay gone?

“If you’re a telemarketer,” Nesta drawls, voice impetuous. I can easily imagine the fiercely raised brow and downward curve of her lips; Nesta could stare a person down, get them to surrender by expression alone. Perhaps, even on the telephone. “You’re doing a swell job.”

I choke on a laugh; it's full of tears and despair. Nesta hasn’t changed one bit, even if I have.

A gasp. “Feyre?”

I go still. Nesta couldn’t possibly have recognized me by my laugh alone.

“Feyre, is that you?” My sister’s voice sounds impossibly soft, disbelieving. Tears prick my eyes.

Nesta grows annoyed. “Speak, dammit. Elain and I thought you were dead, and so help me, I’ll—”

I hang up the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may yell at me all you'd like on Tumblr! (@noodlecatposts)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Twenty-one chapters! I remember when I planned this short little 5 + 1, and then wrote something totally different! Ah, oh well! Thanks for sticking with me.

## unexpected help

Lucien meets me at the apartment first thing in the morning as promised, and we get to work on cleaning up my disaster of an apartment. I manage to scrub most of the paint off of the off-white walls, but I’ll need to paint over the patches that have stained red. The flooring managed to scrap clean. Alis is going to _lose it_ if she finds paint anywhere.

I suppose I have a good excuse for the mess, but I really, really don't want to fess up. If I did, Alis would likely go to jail for me. Or worse, I'm afraid. I don't know just what length Amarantha is willing to go to, to eliminate so-called threats.

What a ridiculous thought. Me, Feyre Archeron, a threat.

As Lucien fixes my door, he tells me stories about Andras. The words spill from him, likely eager to be released at long last. I don’t imagine he’s had anyone to talk with about life, much less his boyfriend since I left the picture. I hate that thought of Lucien being alone in that hellhole with no one to turn to. It makes me feel so guilty.

Yet, Lucien wouldn’t go with me when I ran. I tried to persuade him, but Lucien was as stubborn as I was, and I was at my breaking point. I couldn't stay and wait for him to get there, too. Until he let go of the notion that he owed Tamlin some great debt, Lucien would remain with him, our abuser, and endure what he felt he was owed.

“I really wish you’d come to meet him,” Lucien says with a soft, fond smile. The expression on his face makes my heartache, both with happiness for Lucien and a surprising longing for myself. It's been a long while since I thought of romance in regards to myself.

“He’d adore you," Lucien trails off. I smile at him.

“But what about you?” Lucien asks, suddenly. “Tell me to fuck off if it’s none of business, but—Anybody special?”

I find myself unwillingly thinking about a certain arrogant smile, the mischievous blue eyes that go with it. I shake my head to clear the phantom memory of the smell of too-expensive coffee.

“Nope, just—nope,” is what I settle with.

Lucien looks like he wants to pry; he likely saw right through my expression, that he can sense that I’m leaving something out on purpose. Therein lies the problem with having a good friend, a best friend. Like Alis. Or Lucien. They can see _everything_.

“Oh,” Lucien’s expression is crestfallen. He gives a little shrug to play off his disappointment, but like him, I can tell the omission upsets him. He used to be the one I'd say everything to.

“What?” I prod. Lucien likes to trick everyone into spilling the details of their life, the clever fox, but one often has to pry out his real opinions—the ones not masked in hate or sarcasm, anyway.

A sigh tells me I won’t like what I’ve asked for. “I just hoped, I don’t know, that you’d found someone... That you were—happier.”

Now I sigh; I stand from where I was scrubbing the floor and walk over to examine his work on the door. Lucien is good at what he does; I don’t think anyone will ever know otherwise. Good news for me.

“You don’t have to have someone to be happy, Luc,” I raise my brow at him to make my point. It's a very un-Lucien comment that someone needs another person to be happy. “You ought to know that better than anyone. And I am—happier.”

I can see it in Lucien's eyes that he doesn’t like that answer, but it’s all I’ve got. I’ve been out from under Tamlin’s shadow for a while, but it doesn’t mean I’m out of the woods yet. The idea of seeing someone else, it terrifies me, more than I'm willing to admit in my head; I'm definitely not ready to admit it to Tamlin's _right-hand man_.

## Christmas

As expected, Lucien tries very had to convince me to come to his apartment for Christmas day. He knows I’ve never been on the best of terms with my family, and my old friend is horrified at the idea of my being alone for a holiday. I refuse him as gently as I can.

I don’t know how to tell him:_ I need to keep my distance from you._

Lucien does, however, manage to guilt me into getting coffee with him. It's an activity we used to do often; it was our thing, and one of the few outings I didn't need prior permission to do. In retrospect, I suspect it's because I was going for coffee with Lucien and not someone else. 

In the end, the two of us walk down the block to the nearest coffee shop and order our coffee. Lucien lingers, clearly unwilling to leave me alone; we endure a stilted conversation, and I try not to obviously check my surroundings every few minutes. I think I might get caught, but the redhead doesn't say anything. 

I return back to my apartment later that night, antsy and afraid. I don’t want to spend all of my money on a hotel room, and I really need to finish cleaning up the mess before Alis comes home. I check my phone periodically as I work. There’s not much there, just the occasional check-in from friends. Eventually, I go to bed, but I have trouble falling asleep.

At night, I'm plagued with nightmares. The image of my front door crashing open, of it swinging in and hitting the wall, plays on repeat in my mind. The sound of wood splintering beneath a man's boot echoes in my mind and Mr. Attor's sneering face follows me into consciousness as I wake with a start.

Understandably, I sleep in on Christmas Day way later than I have in weeks. Midafternoon, I crawl from my bed, desperate for some food and water, and I scrounge up what I can from the cabinets. Regrettably, I didn't venture out into the city to do some grocery shopping, and now everywhere is closed for the holiday. I suppose it doesn't matter; I've never been that great of a cook.

I tread back into my room and fish my phone out of the bed covers, contemplating whether or not it’s too early to order that Chinese food. I get distracted by the messages I find before I can make my decision.

> **ALIS @ 8:05AM**
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS!
> 
> [PIC]

I smile at the picture of Alis and her nephews. Best friend or not, I could never compare to those toothy grins.

> **MOR @ 9:00AM**
> 
> Christmas is here, and so far, we only have had one accidental fire.
> 
> The others were on purpose. How’s Prythian?

I immediately respond, begging for an explanation.

> **CASSIAN @ 1:15PM**
> 
> Did you go see your family?

I text him that I am a coward. Cassian ensures me that I am not. It’s not what I expected from him when I first contacted the gym rat, but Cassian makes an excellent Mom Friend.

Flipping to the app, I find that Azriel has responded. I’m surprised by what I see.

> **AZRIEL @ 2:00PM**
> 
> No one should be alone on Christmas, and I’m finding that my apartment is too quiet without my family around. Would you like to go to dinner?
> 
> Is that too forward? To ask a stranger to dinner for Christmas?
> 
> **FEYRE @ 2:45PM**
> 
> Not at all. Just don’t fall in love with me.
> 
> The anniversary would be so cliché.
> 
> **AZRIEL @ 2:50PM**
> 
> I agree. So, I’ll try my best not to.

Little does the guy know that he had me at the prospect of food. We exchange a couple of suggestions, and in the end, we settle for a place near the Sidra, in my favorite part of town. It’s nearly time for dinner, and when Azriel gives me a time to meet him, I panic. I hadn't realized how much of the day had passed already.

I rush to make myself look presentable as quickly as possible. If I’d known I’d be going somewhere, I would have woken up earlier, given myself the time to mess around the house and still get ready on time; I probably would have ended up late anyway.

The restaurant isn’t one I’ve ever heard of before, but with pretty much every part of Prythian abandoned, it’s easy to locate the only open restaurant on the block. It’s quiet, even with people milling about, coming and going. I guess Azriel isn’t the only one in the know.

I find Azriel easily, recognizing him from his profile picture. There’s just one of him, smiling uncertainly at the camera. No teeth, just a crinkle in his eyes. Azriel's bio made me laugh, but the picture and the kindness it portrayed made me trust him.

In-person, I’m struck with one thing about Azriel: he’s—beautiful. In my drawing classes, we’d always discuss how beauty was in the symmetry of something, that more symmetric people are found more attractive. Azriel would be pictured as the example, classic and elegant.

Azriel’s curled up in a dark wool coat and a charcoal grey scarf. The man doesn't look up at the door, isn't tracking the traffic to look for me, and it takes me another moment to realize that it's because he's reading. The book must be good if he's so invested.

Somehow, I'm not surprised to find him reading at the dinner table in public; it makes me like him more.

“Are you our Az’s date?” A voice thick with an accent asks. I look away from Azriel, blushing at being caught staring at him by someone else. That's pretty embarrassing. No wonder this woman thinks I'm on a date.

“I, uh—”

“I’ve already told you, Sybil,” a deep baritone interrupts with practiced patience. It’s Azriel, come to save me with a wry if exasperated smile. “It’s not a date. This is my _friend_ Feyre.”

Azriel and I share a shy smile, both equally uncomfortable with the current situation. It's weird enough to meet your internet friend for the first time in person; it's even more bizarre to do so with an audience. No pressure.

Sybil looks between us, eyes jerking back and forth. Her expression is full of disbelief, and then it turns unimpressed.

“It’s _Christmas_,” the woman argues, crossing her arms and scowling. My laugh made of nervous energy.

“It is,” Azriel tells her calmly in agreement. Then he mutters something to the woman in a language I don’t understand, but the message rings clear in the tone. _Go away._

_Whatever. Liar._ Sybil tells him with one pointed finger; then, she spins on her heels and disappears. Azriel flashes me an apologetic smile, and then he leads me towards our table without another word.

“So,” I begin with a sly grin. “Do you bring many dates here?”

Azriel sighs; it’s practiced at depicting his suffering. My smile spreads.

“I never bring _any _dates here,” Azriel explains. “That appears to be the problem.”

“Oh?” I prompt.

“Yes,” he clears his throat dramatically before mimicking the woman that greeted me. His imitation of her accent is flawless. “_You’re a bright young man, Azriel. What’re you doing here, all alone for? Surely all the pretty girls are falling all over you.”_

“Ohhh,” this time, the word conveys my understanding. Azriel smiles softly. “So, basically, they’re hoping we fall madly in love, and that we get married? Live happily ever after?”

A pause. Azriel’s texting inflections make much more sense now.

"Yes," he says.

"Well, I hate to break it to you," I tease, and Azriel lifts a brow in question. "But this shirt is much to new to do any falling in."

His chuckle is light, soft. "Are you sure? We could definitely get some free dessert out of this. I bet they'd do the catering at our wedding."

I burst into laughter. My reaction pleases Azriel, a smile threatening at the corner of Azriel's mouth.

Maybe this Christmas won't be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more Azriel next time!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, I've been sitting on my hands on the editing for this fic for a while. Here's your reward for being so patient and kind! :)
> 
> Also, I'm very happy to hear you guys like Azriel; his characterization is always hard because, like, we have so little to work with (which is a whole thing). Here's a little bit more of him!

## Illyrian

Azriel orders us food in that strange tongue of his. At my expression, he explains his heritage, and I feel like a fool because, looking at him again, it’s undeniable Azriel’s bloodline stems back to the native peoples of the mountains shadowing the city. We talk about it briefly, but it’s apparent that Azriel is uncomfortable with his childhood. It’s something we have in common.

So, we discuss idle things, like work and hobbies.

“And where do you work, Feyre?” Azriel asks as he chases the dumpling-like food on his plate. The food is rich, spicy, and I’m in love with it. Another reason to venture into this part of town.

“Hybern Inc,” I tell him around a mouthful of food. Azriel smiles at my antics, but at my answer, his expression falters and turns into something curious.

Azriel recovers quickly, but the reaction leaves me unsettled. I think back to how Mor reacted when I told her. Something’s off about my job; I just don’t know what it is. I’ve figured out that the Hybern’s are shady, mob-like even, but maybe I need to press Lucien for some more information. What the hell does Tamlin have to do with any of this?

“What do you do for them?” Azriel asks carefully.

“Plan their ridiculous parties,” I tell him, sipping at my water. Azriel seems appeased by my answer. I decide to press him for some information instead. “What about you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t share,” Azriel tells me.

“What? Like _if I told you, I’d have to kill you_?” I jest, but Azriel doesn’t laugh. Or smile.

I stare at him for a moment, the blood draining out of my face. Then the bastard smirks at me, takes another bite of his food.

“Fuck,” I swear. “You scared the shit out me.”

Azriel’s laugh is one of the most magnificent sounds I’ve heard in a while. It makes me proud, to know I’m even the slightest bit responsible for it. Despite it being a joke made at my expense.

“I apologize for nothing,” Az tells me, orders us dessert. Sybil looks delighted at our smiles; I bet she’s already planning the menu for our wedding.

## A warning?

Azriel and I part with full stomachs and smiles. Having planned to spend the holiday alone and curled up on my couch, the change of plans is a welcome surprise. We make plans to have dinner again soon, and Azriel assigns me with the task of picking the next place. It needs to be somewhere new; he tells me. Somewhere one of us hasn’t eaten before. I accept the challenge and immediately fail.

> **FEYRE @ 8:45PM**
> 
> Hello! We just said goodbye.
> 
> But. Coffee shop on this side of town.
> 
> Serves way too many types of food to be a coffee shop.
> 
> **AZRIEL @ 8:50PM**
> 
> Do you mean Rita’s?
> 
> I survive off of her coffee.
> 
> And that French toast!
> 
> **FEYRE @ 8:52PM**
> 
> Dammit. Back to the drawing board.

I take a long way home, choosing to walk along the frozen Sidra for a while. I’m not eager to return to my apartment, and there’s more than a small part of me that thinks something terrible will have happened while I was away. I still have Attor’s nametag, haunting me from its place on the kitchen counter, but I can’t turn it in until work on Monday. What if he decides to come back for it before then?

Lucien’s phone number burns a hole in the pocket where my phone is. I was afraid to give him my new one, and he understood the reasons well. Instead, he’d given me his, told me to call him if anything were to happen. Lucien wrote down his address, too, just in case I changed my mind about Christmas.

I was tempted to go over there... To meet his boyfriend. I missed Lucien, as complicated as it was, and I really wanted to know the man who’d managed to get the grouchiest human I’d ever met to look so starry-eyed and dopey.

“Feyre?”

I look up from watching my feet on the cobblestones at the sound of my name. Clare Beddor is standing in front of me, dressed in a waitress uniform; her hair pulled back into a flawless bun. She looks so different. I almost don’t recognize her.

“Clare?” The woman blushes, likely embarrassed by my reaction. She turns to leave immediately as if she regrets the decision to call my name and has decided to pretend that she didn’t. I ask her to wait, plea.

“Clare? What happened?” I ask her quickly before she can get away. The woman continues to walk, even as I follow her, but Clare slows her steps enough so that I can keep pace. We’re headed for the bus stop; she’s probably on her way home, too.

She was working on Christmas. It’s so different from the job she gave up, the job I thought she adored.

“Why’d you quit Hybern?” I blurt out, tactless as ever.

Clare snorts; the sound is a hateful thing. “I didn’t quit Hybern. I was fired—_strongly encouraged to resign_.”

“What?” I repeat like a broken record. “Janice said you quit, that you emailed her your resignation one night and just walked out.

“I did, but not because I _wanted_ to,” Clare sneers. “It was either I quit, or I—”

Clare breaks off, realizing her error; the girl never was particularly good at keeping things to herself. I’d spent enough lunch hours in her near vicinity to know how loose-lipped she was. If one wanted their secret remaining a secret, it was best not to tell Clare.

“Or you what?” I pant once we stop at the bus station. There should be one any second, but at the moment, Clare and I are the only ones waiting.

Clare’s eyes dart around suspiciously, ignoring my question. But I’m a stubborn thing, and it often gets me into trouble.

“Were you—” I swallowed, afraid to know the truth. “Was someone—Did _she_ threaten you?”

I decide to just say it. Consequences be damned. I never learn.

Clare's face goes pale. Her knees must go weak because soon, she’s sitting on the bench, wringing her hands and looking smaller than I ever thought Clare Beddor was capable of. I move to take the spot beside her, reach carefully for her arm.

“Clare?”

She’s silent for a long time, staring at her hands but not seeing them. It isn’t until the bus pulls up that Clare’s worried eyes look to me, pleading.

“If you know what happened to me,” she swallows thickly, and I think she might cry. “If you even _suspect_ it, then it’s because it’s happening to you, too.”

The bus’s brakes screech to a halt in front of us. “So, I’d get out of there as soon as you can, Feyre, because _she_ doesn’t give up—won’t give him up. She’s—insane. Like for real. Don’t—get hurt. _Get out._”

My old coworker rises from her seat, but Clare pauses at the entrance to throw me one last look. “He never cared for me and look where that got me. But,” she looks thoughtful. “I saw how he looked at you.”

Clare leaves me speechless at the bus stop. I sit there for a while, my brain trying to catch up with what she’s implied. Clare was harassed, too.

And it was all my fault.

_I saw how he looked at you._

## Lost and found

Monday morning, I walk into work more skittish than I’ve been in a very, very long time. I beeline it for the front desk, planning to turn in Attor’s nametag, but at the last second, I reconsider. There are cameras everywhere in this horrible place, and I’m afraid of what could happen if I turn in the nametag, and someone finds out.

_Get out_, Clare told me.

Instead, I surreptitiously drop the nametag in the hustle and bustle of the morning rush to the elevators. As I step inside, my eyes fixate on where Attor’s badge lies, getting trampled by the foot traffic. I hope it doesn’t take too long for the thing to get back to him. One less reason for him to come looking for me.

“Feyre, could you come here, please?” Janice calls from her office as I step off the elevator. The interns snicker, but they’re wise enough now not to say anything to me. I think they’re afraid. I’ve decided it’s not a bad thing.

“What’s up?” I ask her as I enter her office.

Janice holds the dreaded black folder, and I pray to every god or deity I can think of that she won’t send me back upstairs. I really can’t afford to go, even as my heart leaps at the thought of seeing Rhys.

Yet, my heart plummets when she lifts the folder, wiggling it at me. I’m mad at him, I remember; Rhys is just using me as a pawn in a much bigger game. A game that will cost me like it did Clare.

“Rhysand has _great_ things to say about you,” Janice lilts from her seat behind her desk. I refuse to acknowledge that I understand what she’s implying. Jealousy is unattractive. “You did very well. Thank you.”

“Thanks,” I say, lamely. I can tell that isn’t the only thing Janice has summoned me for.

“Anyway,” Janice sips her coffee and grimaces. It’s because she ordered from Carver, the new barista haunting the lobby. I’m pretty sure Suriel is plotting his murder.

“As you know, the gala is coming up soon,” she starts, chucking the coffee. It looks like I’ll be on the hunt for Suriel again soon. “By the looks of it, we’ve gotten everything ready and under control—great job herding around those interns.”

I’m uncomfortable with the praise; the image of the cruel Janice from when I started is still fresh in my memory. I wait for her to continue.

“I need you there, of course, to help me keep an eye on things,” Janice informs me. I was prepared for this news, but part of me had hoped to have the evening to myself. To spend it with friends. Maybe Mor would want to do something; she’s been dying to introduce me to her friends.

“Of course,” I manage to sound cheerful, even as I dread babysitting the party while Janice gets drunk.

“Excellent,” Janice is chirper. “We need more coffee.”

“I’ll get right on it,” I tell her.

#

The times goes by without much notice, for which I am eternally thankful. I get the apartment back into order, and I battle back and forth over whether or not to fess up to Alis that there was a break-in in the first place.

She’d absolutely lose her mind, and Alis would rush home to check on me and protect me, take care of me. Yet, I don’t want that, don’t wish for Alis to give up her personal time, time spent with her family, to come fuss over me. I’ve got everything under control.

I’ve never been the best at accepting help, but I’ve always been keen to give it.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I'm going to write something cute this update!  
Also me: WTF? This is NOt cuTE.

## Tarquin

It’s Wednesday when I meet Tarquin for our usual coffee. He’s newer to Hybern, works in their public relations field, and surprise, surprise—I met him in the elevator.

When I first saw him, I was struck by his coloring; the dark skin, white-blonde hair, and shining turquoise eyes mirrors that of the people of Adriata perfectly. Realizing I was staring, I smiled at him, in that polite way of greeting a stranger, but the smile he returned my way was so kind, so genuine, that I couldn't help blurting out the first thing on my mind.

“Are you from Adriata?” were my ineloquent first words to him. I flushed immediately, embarrassed by my rudeness. At least we were the only ones on the elevator. Small mercies.

Before I could apologize, he said yes, smiling with amusement. “What gave me away?”

I laughed, a little uneasy, apologized anyway.

“I wasn’t offended,” the man told me. “I like your directness.”

“Oh, okay,” I murmured. I decided to introduce myself with a mumbled: “I’m Feyre.”

I offered my hand to him, and he clasped it with his own. His fingers were soft, warm; they contrasted with my own, worn with calluses from creating and working tough jobs. Now I use these calloused hands for typing up budget reports; no more painting or drawing, but no more dishwashing or stack shelves either.

“I’m Tarquin.” His blue eyes glimmered like the ocean. They’re beautiful, but I couldn't help but think they were too green, not enough blue.

“Well, Feyre,” Tarquin said my name so warmly that I couldn't stop the smile. “Do you happen to know where I can get some coffee around here? I’ve been told there’s a coffee cart circling around, but I can’t find it anywhere.”

I laughed. Suriel has become extra picky about her stops as of late. I think she’s grumpy about the new cart that’s taken a permanent residence on the ground floor. I wouldn’t want to be that Carver guy.

Tarquin didn't get the joke, didn't know why I started laughing. He looked to me with a silent question, uncomfortable by my unexplained laughter.

“I think I know where to find her,” I told him with a reassuring smile.

I still had a little while before I needed to check on the interns. They tended to be pretty sluggish in the mornings, and we were pretty much done with everything anyway. Tarquin watched with fascination as I stared at the keypad for the floor levels. I decided to press 11. I’ve long since stopped needing to use the email thread to keep track of the coffee girl.

Tarquin appeared to be uncertain, perhaps afraid that I was pulling some kind of sick joke on him, the new guy, but he followed my lead anyway, sneaking glances at me as we watched the numbers tick by.

“How do you know where she is?” He asked.

I shrugged. “Just a feeling.”

#

> **MOR (11:35 am)**
> 
> DON’T FORGET TO TAKE A PIC
> 
> I need proof or it never happened!
> 
> **FEYRE (1:24 pm)**
> 
> What do you need proof for?
> 
> I’m your friend. You are supposed to trust my word.
> 
> **MOR (1:25 pm)**
> 
> FOR THE DIVORCE
> 
> HO.
> 
> **MOR (2:13 pm)**
> 
> I’m kidding. I love you!
> 
> GET ‘EM.
> 
> **FEYRE (2:30 pm)**
> 
> Mor, I told you. It’s not even like that!
> 
> We’re FRIENDS.
> 
> **MOR (2:31 pm)**
> 
> But he liKES YOU.

#

And so, I do gain another friend. Tarquin meets me for coffee breaks, and we fall into an easy camaraderie. The man is kind, possibly one of the most generous that I’ve ever encountered, and his smiles are soft and real. His words are plain, lacking a double edge. Tarquin's a rarity amongst the Prythian business types.

I haven’t seen Rhysand since our argument; one could say that I was avoiding him, but I have had no reason to go and see him again, to take another trip up to that gilded executive lounge. Suriel’s coffee and Tarquin’s company was serving me just fine.

I find it hard, though, to shake the image of Rhys’s sad eyes from my memory. Perhaps, my heart isn’t as hardened as I once thought it was.

Then I recall my brief and eerie conversation with Clare. It’s probably best that I pretend it is.

“What’s on your mind?” Tarquin asks me friendly as we exit the elevator. I jump; I hadn’t realized that I’d gone quiet, lost in my thoughts. I smile.

“Just daydreaming,” I tell him.

His eyes shine, “About anything good?”

I blush furiously, searching for something to say back. Truthfully, I’m caught off guard by his forwardness; until now, our conversations had merely been filled with batting eyelashes and vague, innocent compliments. This is the first time, Tarquin’s been so bold with me.

I don't have to worry about finding an answer, though, because that's the precise moment when my current life crashes headfirst into my past one. The one I thought I escaped.

“Ah! Lucien Vanserra!” Tarquin barks when he glances ahead of us in the direction of Suriel and the coffee cart. I wasn’t paying attention, too wrapped up in my own thoughts, too flustered by Tarquin’s attention.

My eyes dart to the cart, and sure enough, Lucien turns around, his flaming red hair giving him away, those russet eyes confirming it for me. A familiar cold fills me, washing away the flush from my cheeks that Tarquin put there, locking my knees into place.

I knew Lucien worked here, of course, but knowing about something and seeing it come to life are two different things. If Lucien is here, Tamlin is close by. I hadn’t realized they’d moved their offices over so quickly. After the new year, the emails had said; I thought I had more time.

Lucien’s eyes are warm when they fall to my companion. He laughs openly, taking Tarquin’s hand in his own for a shake, greeting him like old pals. Fuck. Then his eyes move to me, and a series of emotions strike him all at once, too quick and unexpected for him to hide them.

I see them one by one for what they are: surprise, delight, concern, and then _fear_.

But Lucien isn’t afraid of me, he’s worried about me. That one emotion tells me everything that I need to know: Tamlin _is_ here. And he must be close by.

## Coffee breaks

I can feel both Suriel’s and Tarquin’s eyes upon me, trying to get a read on the situation but not being able to. I can’t bring myself to look at either of them. My eyes are locked with Lucien’s, having an old, familiar conversation with him.

_Where is he?_

_Close._

_Does he know yet? Will he be upset?_

_No, and yes-furious._

“Feyre, are you alright?” Tarquin asks, his kind eyes watching me as I freak out. I can barely stand to look at him for fear of him seeing all the emotions churning in my eyes.

“I, uh,” I stammer. My cheeks heat now for a different reason than being flustered. I’m _scared_.

“This is the best place in the whole tower to get coffee, so I’ve heard,” I overhear a familiar baritone say. “No, I’ll be right back. Yes, I trust this person’s opinions _implicitly_.”

_Rhys_. He’s grinning like a thief; I can tell just by the sound of his voice. The arrogant smile leaks through even when he talks.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. _Fuck_.

Rhysand’s eyes are alight with joy when they find me, standing there lost by the coffee cart. As he takes in my mood, the expression quickly vanishes from his face; I don't even want to know how sorry I look right now, here in front of all of these concerned men.

Another laugh follows him, and the sound ricochets around in my head, scrambles my thoughts. I’d recognize that laugh anywhere; I often find it in my dreams, my nightmares. It used to be my favorite sound, one I’d work tirelessly to hear. Now it turns my blood cold.

“Feyre needs to deliver my coffee,” Suriel interrupts, shoving two warm to-go cups into my shaking hands. Lucien looks put out; I imagine he hasn’t received his own order yet.

“We haven’t even ordered,” Tarquin tells the girl impatiently. Suriel shoots him a scathing look, and the man blanches, practically quivers in his dress shoes. Tarquin would do well not to get on her wrong side. Carver’s coffee, the new cart owner haunting the lobby, tastes like ash.

Suriel turns her intrepid gaze on the man. Tarquin pales under her attention, torn between running from the coffee girl and staying to help me.

“Leave,” Suriel tells him Tarquin looks offended. “Now,” she adds.

Tarquin eyes us warily, but I nod at him.

“I’ll get the elevator for us,” he tells me, clearly eager to help me. Somehow. He doesn't know what is wrong, but he knows that _something_ is wrong.

I take the coffees willingly. Gods know how Suriel has them prepared already. Perhaps, they’re someone else’s order, and I’ve just stolen them. I stumble through a hasty goodbye to the men. Lucien looks eager to see me go, but Rhys's gaze has gone cold as he watches me, seeing through the panic for what it is. A kindred, abused spirit, that's what Rhys is.

Yet, I must have made some old god mad in another lifetime because my window for escape slips right through my fingers. I twirl around, prepared to run for the elevator, but I smack into a firm, broad chest. The scent that hits my nose is familiar, choking. The notes floral notes of carnations, of sandalwood and bergamot, are overwhelming, cloying; I could be sick.

I look up and into gut-wrenching tawny eyes. Tamlin’s surprised to see me, and in another situation, I’d be very, very happy to have knocked him off his feet like this. No one surprises Tamlin. But I’m not prepared to see him, was hoping to put it off longer than this.

“Feyre?” Tamlin is incredulous. His gaze is burning with scrutiny.

I freeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we'll have the last of the flashbacks next?


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke 200 followers on Tumblr! So, here's an extra update as thanks!!  
Also, this way you all have to wait less time to return to that cliffhanger. ;)

#  _FLASHBACK_

## Determined to Fix It

Lucien tried to stop me the day I surprised Tamlin at the office. I’d woken up determined, ready to face Tamlin and figure things out. If I was stuck in this mess—and I was, had already accepted defeat in that matter—I was going to be happy with Tamlin.

“Feyre!” Lucien exclaimed when he saw me in the lobby, surprised. “I—what are you doing here?”

In retrospect, I recognize that flicker of fear that I saw in his eyes. He was scared, caught; Tamlin and Lucien both were caught.

“I came to surprise Tamlin,” I explained, not seeing the concern flash in Lucien’s eyes, the panic. “I’m going to take him out to lunch.”

Take him out to lunch and shower him with attention, with the new watch I’d gone out and bought this morning. I was going to make him happy, and we were going to make the most of this.

“Uh, Tamlin’s already out for lunch,” Lucien stammered, rising from the desk in his office and coming around to face me. I noticed the way he put himself between myself and the way to Tamlin’s office. I arched a brow at him, confused.

“Alright then,” I told him with a shrug. I sidestepped him, and Lucien could do nothing but let me go. “I’ll just wait for him in his office. I want to surprise him.”

“Feyre, I,” Lucien’s words faded away as I waved him off. He was always a fussy thing, got easily upset whenever his usual routine was interrupted. I’d learned to deal with him by then, learned to shrug it off.

That was why I wasn’t prepared when I reached the massive, golden wood door. I could hear someone in there, moving around, in the office that was supposed to be empty. Tamlin was already off at lunch, Lucien had said. So, who was in his office?

I hear the long, wanton moan a moment before I open the door, but my brain had already told my arm what to do, the muscles complying even as my consciousness screamed at me to stop, told me not to open it. My hand turned the doorknob, and the door, having boldly been left unlocked, swung open.

“_Tamlin_,” Ianthe moaned my fiancé’s name, voice high pitched and breathy, as he thrust into her, panted into his secretary’s ear. Propped up on the desk, back facing me, skirt hiked up and legs wrapped around Tamlin, the woman never saw me coming.

Neither of them noticed me. The couple missed how I froze with surprise, were too distracted to notice me as my eyes drank in the scene in front of me. I watched, helpless, putting together all the little pieces of a puzzle I’d never noticed before. I wanted to turn around and run away. I wanted to scream, I think.

Yes, I definitely wanted to scream, but not in general, like some wailing banshee. A betrayed housewife. No, I wanted to scream at them—at _him. _At this man that had the nerve to hold me hostage in his pretty little uptown penthouse, a gilded castle in the sky; this man who said he loved me while he snuck around with his secretary behind my back.

Or maybe it was to my face, but I just wasn’t able to see it.

I think perhaps that Lucien wanted them to be found. As time passed, I’d grown closer with Lucien than I ever was with Tamlin, and I suspect that Lucien found his loyalty unwittingly transferring to me as Tamlin grew more and more terrible. The weight of Tamlin’s secrets had finally become too much, and this was Lucien’s way of reliving his burden of telling me without having to actively do so. He could have stopped me, taken me to lunch in Tamlin's absence, made up some excuse, but Lucien didn't.

Tamlin whispered something positively filthy in his secretary's ear, and Ianthe _moaned_ at the dirty promises my fiance was making her. They were nearly finished, and I didn't think I'd be able to erase what I'd already seen, much less what I was about to. I was too late for saving. So, I let the office door slam shut behind me, locking me in there with them, and I stared Tamlin down as those traitorous green eyes met my own, mid-act. I’d never felt as if I held any power over Tamlin, not until that moment I caught him, red-handed.

“Feyre,” Tamlin choked.

Ianthe froze then, screeching. “Excuse me?”

I turned from the couple and left; my head held high. I wouldn’t let them see how upset I was. No, they didn’t get to see me cry. Nor did Lucien, who watched me waltz out of the building without a backward glance, even as Ianthe screamed, and Tamlin chased after me, pants falling from his waist.

## Time to Leave

I flew home as quickly as I could, shutting off my phone when it became clear that the only way to get it to stop ringing would be to answer it. I knew that Tamlin was likely right behind me, on his way home for a full out confrontation or to beg for mercy, I didn’t know which, but I did know I was planning to be gone before he arrived.

I hoped that his pants around his ankles slowed him down enough. 

Bag packed with some essentials; I made my way for the front of the house. I’d decided to leave my phone in the kitchen; I knew he used it to track me, would use it for hunting me down. I hardly even wanted any of the clothes in my closet, and I considered for a moment too long on leaving them as well. 

Perhaps, I would just walk out the door and disappear from him forever. I really, really liked the way that idea sounded.

Disappointment flooded me when I heard the lock to our door click; Tamlin was home. With a deep breath, I spun from the room with the small bag in my arms and decided to face him at last. How I’d hoped I’d make it out before he got there; Tamlin must have raced out the door right behind me, without stopping.

In the living room, I find my fiancé, looking desperately sorry. I couldn’t find it in myself to feel bad for him. He deserved every ounce of self-loathing he was experiencing at that moment. More even.

We stared each other down for a long moment. Tamlin’s breathing was coming in ragged gulps of air as if he’d actually run all the way from the office after me. That was a ridiculous idea; Tamlin didn’t run anywhere. He barely walked. People came to him. He was important. 

“Feyre,” he gasped my name. “Let me explain, I—“

I raised a hand to cut him off, but being told what to do was always more my role. The man went on explaining himself, even as I gestured for him to stop, scoffed when he didn’t.

“It was, was an accident. I never meant for it to start. I—“

“So, what you just tripped over your ego and found yourself fucking her?” I spat at him, interrupting with words this time. It worked. The man in front of me stopped short of himself, but his green eyes flashed in a warning. Tamlin didn't appreciate it when I had an attitude. Wives are docile things. They don’t curse, and they certainly don’t pick fights.

“And what do you mean 'start'?” I push ahead. “As in this time wasn’t the first?”

He was silent, more of an admission of guilt than I would ever actually get in words from Tamlin.

I let out a bitter, cruel laugh to break the silence. “Is it going to the last?”

I was surprised when I realized the feeling clutching my heartstrings wasn't grief or hurt. It was hope. I was hoping he’d say no, that he’d leave me. Release me from his hold so that I didn't have to break out of it myself. “Or are you going to keep fucking her while I tend to you and your home like your fucking mother?”

“It’s over,” Tamlin tells me so quickly that his words are more a vocalization than a cognitive string of words. “I’ll stop it. We’ll stop it. She’s just— always there, and Ianthe’s always so attentive—“

I snorted, and Tamlin had the decency to flush at the implications. I clutched the handle to my bag and took a deep breath. This was it. I was leaving. 

“I’m going to go stay with my sister.” I prayed to the Gods that Elain would open the door. Nesta surely wouldn’t. “Don’t come looking for me.” I knew that he would anyway. 

“Feyre! Hold on a second,” Tamlin ordered, blocking my path with his larger frame. “You’re not even going to talk to me about this? You’re just going to leave, just like that?” His voice grew more frantic as he noticed the bag in my hands. “You’re just giving up?”

“I’m not giving up _anything_. I didn’t sleep with my secretary,” I explained and shouldered the bag. It wasn’t cumbersome, and I still don’t like what that implied about my life there. The time that I wasted. That there was so little, I would take with me. 

I heaved a sigh, and then I crossed our meticulously decorated living room. Everything in the space looked like it just came out of the box like it’d never been lived on. The whole apartment looked absent of life, like some kind of magazine ad. A staged apartment for sale.

With stark clarity, I realized then that we hadn’t been living in it, not together, not for a long time. 

Because Tamlin was living his own life, going out for drinks and taking long work trips with his secretary, and going to “lunch” with another woman. 

And I— I just hadn’t been living at all. 

When I reached Tamlin, I don’t know what I expected to happen. I should have known that just letting me go wasn’t something he was capable of. 

He stepped in front of me, closer to me, eyes ablaze. I remember meeting them with all the confidence I could muster, even as the memory of him knocking me to the floor resurfaced. He didn’t _mean_ to do it. 

“Let me go, Tam,” the sentence had a deeper meaning than just allowing me by. _Let me go. Let me leave. Give me up._

I stared into those green eyes for what felt like forever. Tamlin’s face went through an array of emotions, so quickly, I almost couldn’t keep up, but in the end, it settled on determination. 

“No.” My fiancé choked on the word. Fear struck me cold. 

“You can’t just keep me here,” I hissed through my teeth, panicking. When Tamlin remained silent, trying to bend my will through pure force of mind, I made to step around him, but Tamlin yanked on my arm as I passed by, dragging me back with aggression I didn’t think he had in him. At least not for use on me directly.

Not on purpose anyway. It was an accident, he said. 

“You’re not leaving until we talk,” Tamlin told me, ignoring my attempts to struggle free of him. “You just need to calm down.”

“Tamlin!” I yelled his name at him; it was all I could come up with. He dragged me across the living room, and I toppled over a lamp on the table as we struggled. The coffee table broke when I kicked at it. The pristine glass scattered in the floor. “Stop!”

Yet, Tamlin resisted my every attempt to fight him; being so much stronger than me, it was easy. One second I was leaving, and the next, my fiance was tossing me through the doorway of my bedroom like discard shoe. Crying out, I hit the floor hard, landing heavily atop my wrist. 

“Just take a moment to think about it. It’ll be fine.” The man dared to try and console me. Looking up at him then, I was able to see the hysteria in his eyes, the obsession. With me, I realized. He was trying to keep me here forever. Willing or not. 

When I opened my mouth, I didn’t recognize the voice that came out.

“I’ve had enough time to think about it: you made sure of that.”

The door slammed shut without a response. A crack on the other side of the door told me that Tamlin’s temper was fully unleashed, now that he’d caged me up somewhere safe. Later, when I rose from my crumpled pile on the floor, I’d find the door stuck. I’d learn he’d snapped the knob off, as a way to keep me inside until Tamlin deigned to let me out.

But before then, I cried. Trembled at the sounds of the crashing in the next room.

## Unexpected Rescuer

I don’t know how long I spent trapped in my room. I faded in and out of consciousness, stricken and scared and horrified. Then more than ever, I realized how little I knew Tamlin. This wasn’t the same man that I met that day in the conference room, the one that caught me talking to myself and thought I was cute.

But it was the same one that showed up at my apartment unexpectedly, that made the decision I was going to move in without asking, that proposed to me as if it wasn’t a question. The signs were there all along. We’d just finally found the tip of the iceberg.

“Feyre?” A voice called out, soft and shaken. I’d know the sound of Lucien’s rough timbre anywhere. I answered with a sob, unable to formulate any words.

“Fuck,” I heard him swear from the other side of the door. I could make out the sound of crunching glass as he walked through the living room. It wasn’t a good sign. A soft thump against the door made me think Lucien was pushing against it, trying to figure out how it was stuck.

“Feyre,” Lucien’s voice was meant to be soothing, but the shakiness of it made a few more tears slip from my eyes. “I have to go get something, but I will be right back.”

“Don’t leave,” I managed to choke out. Even if I couldn’t see Lucien, I knew that he was there, and that was enough, I thought. I heard him sigh.

“I’m going to step over to the kitchen for just a second,” Lucien explained. “I’ve got to shimmy the thing open. Be brave just a little longer.”

I could hear the strain in his voice, and I tried hard to keep it together as I listened to his crunching footsteps recede from the door. I wasn’t very successful; hoarse sobs wracked me again when his footsteps faded. I knew I was close to getting out; Lucien wouldn’t leave me locked up in here. And yet, I couldn’t stop the tears.

“It’s okay,” Lucien’s voice announced his return. I hadn’t even noticed the returning steps. “Just a few more minutes.”

I tried to pull myself together by listening to the sounds of Lucien battling with the door. His sharply uttered curses helped a bit.

Then with a clank and an undignified _Fuck_, the door swung inward, knocking softly against where I sat beside the door. Lucien’s russet eyes peeked inside, looking for me, and I shifted in my spot to allow the door to open the rest of the way.

“Fucking hell,” Lucien swore again, louder. “Are you alright?”

I stared at him blankly. He seemed to realize what a terrible question that was, swearing again. “Feyre, what _happened_?”

“I think you know what happened,” I snapped at him. I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like Lucien didn’t know about Tamlin’s temper or control issues. He’d just turned a blind eye to it all.

“Have known for a while apparently,” I added, my double meaning clear.

Guilt flashed across his face, and his jaw ticked while Lucien picked his next words. I prayed they weren’t in defense of Tamlin. “What can I do? Feyre, I’m—so sorry.”

“I need to leave,” I told him flatly. “Before he gets back—he’s gone, right?”

I’d assumed as much, seeing as how Lucien had released me. I thought I’d heard the door closing earlier. It made it so much worse to realize that Tamlin had not only locked me into my bedroom like he was punishing some rebellious child, but he’d left me there, alone, in the apartment.

Even a child didn’t deserve this. No matter how rotten.

“Feyre,” Lucien trailed off. I sent him a sharp look.

“If I stay here, I’m going to die.” I didn’t know if I thought that Tamlin might kill me, or if I felt that this life would just claim me on its own. “_Help me, Luc._”

Lucien took one long look at me and then another out the door to the destroyed living room. It no longer looked like a magazine as I exited my prison cell. I made an effort not to look too long at the shattered table or broken lamp, lest I lose the nerve to run, and I ignored the holes in the wall, the torn down pictures—my paintings from back when I was happy. I kept my eyes ahead of me, aimed at the door that led to my freedom.

Lucien, my dearest friend, escorted me out of the apartment in silence. We rode the elevator down to the ground level of the floor together, and he drove me to a café to get some breakfast.

Because it was morning. Tamlin had left me locked in my bedroom for more than twelve hours. I'd lost countless hours sitting on the floor, crying.

“I’m going to get up and order us some more coffee,” Lucien told me casually as he looks over his menu, and I gave him an incredulous look. I watched as he laid out some cash on the table as if it were going to be the server’s tip. “When I get back, you’ll be gone.”

“_Luc_,” I said softly. “Come with me. He’ll—you’ll get hurt for this. Blamed.”

“Perhaps,” Lucien agreed. His eyes flicked up from the menu, sorrow filling them as he looked at me one final time, eyes scanning my face to memorize it. His smile was so sad. “But you’ll be safe. And, someday, you’ll be happy.”

My friend leaped from his seat before I could respond to him, stop him. Without a backward glance, Lucien walked over to the counter and struck up a conversation with a peppy brunette that’d been eyeing him appreciatively earlier. I delayed the inevitable for a while, drinking in the sight of Lucien’s half-smile and twinkling eyes. Even if they were falsified, that was how I wanted to remember him. Happy.

Then I grabbed the bit of cash on the table and ran from the café, from my life, as quickly as I could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I look forward to your screams and promises of vengeance!  
In the meantime, I'm going to go write some fluff. 'Cause _phew._


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the angst continues! It gets worse before it gets better! Sorry -Jess

## A Rescue

It’s like watching from outside my body. It feels like all of this already happened, and now I’m bearing witness to the moment later, afterward.

Distantly, I watch as the elevator doors slide shut, locking Tarquin inside without me. Someone joined him on the lift at the last second, and he couldn’t hold the doors without being a jerk. I guess he could’ve gotten off, but Tarquin’s luckily smart enough to realize where he’s supposed to be—far away from this.

I pray he doesn’t take the next elevator back down to us; I hope he doesn’t return for me like a gentleman. I don’t want any extra people involved in whatever is beginning to unfold. I’d hate for Tarquin to catch Tamlin’s eye, for him to mark the younger guy as a threat.

“Feyre?” Tamlin repeats. His voice is demanding, intolerant. It’s incredible how he’s already lost his patience with me; I haven't seen him in nearly a year. “What in the name of the gods are you doing _here?”_

Something about the man’s tone snaps me back into focus, and just like that, my mind reconnects with my body. My attention snaps to Tamlin’s scowl, and fury strikes hot and fast. However, before I can find the right, hateful words to spew, Tamlin lays eyes on Lucien—shit.

“Did you _know_ about this?” My ex-fiancé asks cruelly. I don’t need to look at Lucien, my dear old friend, to know that the blood has rushed back into his cheeks, made his skin match his hair. Tamlin’s temper is dangerous; we’d know best.

“I, uh,” Lucien stammers.

“We only just ran into each other,” I blurt, quick to defend another.

It takes me a moment to realize that the small, defenseless voice that escapes my mouth does, in fact, belong to me. Later, I’ll be upset about the fact that it took minutes for Tamlin to turn me back into that girl he locked in her bedroom, abandoned for the evening because she was too _emotional to deal with_.

“You only just ran into each other,” Tamlin repeats flatly. It’s clear he doesn’t believe the lie; I was _always lying_ before. He’d expect as much of me now.

I’ve taken to staring at his lapel rather than up and into his cruel, familiar face. My heart roars in my ears, and I clench the coffee cups in my hands so tightly that I fear I may burst them with my grip. Tamlin would be mad if I spilled coffee all over his beautiful silk shirt.

“Is everything alright here?” Rhys drawls, sounding terribly bored by us. Unable to resist the pull I feel towards him, my eyes seek out his impenetrable gaze. The infamous Mr. Night leans against Suriel’s coffee cart, looking utterly put out by the events transpiring in front of him. Suriel, on the other hand, seems to be weighing the pro and cons of dumping a cup of coffee onto Rhys’s costly suit.

“Everything is fine,” Tamlin tells him. My ex’s body language transforms immediately; Tamlin becomes the man that tricked me into loving him so quickly that it feels like a slap in the face.

My eyes dart back and forth between the two executives. The two of them have both slipped on their masks as easily as I did my coat this morning; it unnerves me to see the changes in both men. I don’t like how it reminds me of how little I knew Tamlin, the man I loved, or how little I know of Rhys. Rhysand.

“Rhysand,” Tamlin continues conversationally. He dares to place a hand on the small of my back, guiding me to face the man he’s addressed with no small amount of force. To say I flinch under the contact would be an understatement.

“I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Feyre,” Tamlin tells Rhys. Lucien takes in a sharp breath of air at his friend’s words, and I think my soul finally takes leave of my body as panic moves in to take its place. _Fiancé. _Fiancé? 

My heart races so quickly, I think I may be on the verge of passing out.

I look to Rhys immediately, praying that he will see this for what it is. That the man I got to know in quiet afternoon coffees and scathing banter will recognize the fear in my eyes and intervene. With a jolt, I realize that I’m hoping he’ll save me from this moment. From Tamlin.

“Tam, Feyre’s—” Lucien begins, coming to my rescue. He’s silenced by a simple look; I don’t see the exchange, but I know the way this goes. I’ve seen it a million times before.

Those deep blue eyes watch the scene unfolding before him with interest. Something flickers in Rhys’s expression at the tone of Lucien’s voice, and I’m frozen when Rhys’s eyes lock with mine, communicating to me without words.

_Are you okay? _The man’s expression seems to ask me.

I think the fear on my face says it for me. _No._

“I didn’t know you were engaged, Feyre,” Rhys says to me with unmistakable familiarity. Tamlin’s hand flexes against my back, where his skin sears through my clothes. I think I’m going to be sick.

“Feyre needs to deliver my coffee before it gets cold,” Suriel informs the men gathered. Her voice is so unimpressed that it sends me into a spiral; I glance to her, catch the worry in her eye, and at last, I snap into action.

“I need to go,” I echo, quickly and robotically. My words blur together, and I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks under both Rhys’s and Tamlin’s watchful eyes. They’re so... different; I hadn’t realized until now. Yet, it seems so obvious.

One carries a shield of cruelty; the other wears kindness as a mask.

“Janice will be looking for me,” I add, and I dart for the elevator. My escape within sight.

“Feyre!” Tamlin calls after me, clearly irritated. I pray he won’t give chase. Here in public like this, there’d be no hiding his temper when he got a hold of me. It makes me run faster.

The elevators are my destination, but as I wait for it to arrive, I can still make out the booming bass of Tamlin’s voice. Repeatedly mashing the button doesn’t appear to call the elevator any faster, and I begin to panic more. It grips at my heart, stealing my breath from my lungs, and I’ve no choice but to make a run for it. I’m afraid he’ll come after me.

What if he gets me alone in the elevator?

I bolt. My vision is too blurred to make out where I’m headed, but I don’t think I know where I’m going anyway. The floor lounge should be nearby, or I could go to the bathroom. Anywhere. If there’s any mercy in this world, I’ll find no witnesses wherever I end up.

Warm fingers wrap around my arm, and I cry out in surprise. The hand releases me instantly.

“This way,” Rhys says softly; his voice is a balm to my soul. I can feel his hand fluttering by my shoulders, guiding me but afraid to make contact again.

I follow his lead blindly, and I realize it’s because tears have gathered in my eyes.

I don’t know if anyone sees us, together and sneaking off somewhere private; I’m too far gone from myself to be able to keep track of where we go, much less who’s watching. Rhys guides me into an empty office, and I stand there, staring at the empty, clean desk without feeling anything.

Rhys and I are alone now.

I can’t hear Tamlin.

But I can.

_I’d like you to meet my fiancé. _

Like I didn’t leave him. Like it was only yesterday that he locked me my bedroom. Like I’d gone on vacation and only just returned.

A gentle set of hands claim the coffee cups I’m still holding, clinging to for dear life. There’s a distant part of me that wonders at how long I’ll have until Janice or the interns decide to start looking for me. I don’t want—shouldn’t be—caught cloistered away in an office with Rhysand Night of all people.

_Stay away._

Red paint flashes in my memory, and I’m only a little ashamed of the whimper that escapes me.

“Hey, hey,” Rhys’s voice trickles to me in the darkness. “You’re okay. Come, take a seat.”

Leather crunches underneath me as I obey him, allowing Rhys to guide me. Through the tears gathering in my eyes, the blurred image of Rhys kneeling in front of me appears. His hands hover at my arms as if he’s waiting for permission to touch me again after the way I responded last time.

“I—”

My breath comes in short gasps; my lungs pleading with me for more oxygen, but I can’t get the air in, can’t remember how to work my lungs properly. I press my hand to my chest, wheezing.

“Feyre.” My name brings my focus back to Rhys, but he’s still so blurry. The fear on my face is mirrored in his frantic violet eyes. “Feyre, it’s okay. You have to breathe, Feyre.”

“I—” I choke, reaching out and clasping one of his hands like it’s a lifeline. His grip is firm in mine.

“Breathe for me, darling,” Rhys squeezes the hand that I hang onto him by. “Hey—look at me.”

I didn’t realize I’d closed my eyes. Rhys's free hand reaches out to brush at the tears on my face.

“Try breathing with me, darling,” Rhys tells me. He ducks his head to catch my eye. “Breathe with me.”

“Breathe in,” Rhys says, making a show of taking in a deep gulp of breath. When I only stare at him like he’s gone mad, the man reissues the command, takes another deep breath of air.

I try to follow his example; it’s shallow, but it’s breath.

“Now out.” His breath comes out in a slow whoosh. I copy him, weakly.

“Good!” Rhys’s smile is blinding. “Now again.”

## As You Wish

“Thank you,” I manage after a while. Rhys leans against the desk; after I was able to breathe again, he’d backed away, given me space. Part of me wishes he would’ve stayed close, but I can’t say I blame him.

I don’t know how long we’ve been in here, hiding in the office. My coworkers have certainly noticed that I’ve gone missing; I should probably get back to work. I say as much.

“Nonsense,” Rhys tells me, violet eyes flaring. “Email that you aren’t feeling very well and that you’re going home.”

“Better yet,” the man looks thoughtful. “Janice will be in my office in less than an hour; I’ll tell her I saw you looking green, so I sent you home before you infected everyone.”

“Don’t,” I say quickly. The word rushes out in a plea. “I’ll send an email.”

Rhys gives me an inquisitive look, tilting his head in an assessment of me, “I don’t mind. Besides, she’ll be much nicer to me about it than she will be to you.”

“I said, _don’t_.” This time my voice is sharp, and Rhys senses the panic there, the worry. He stands up straight, no longer relying on the furniture to hold him upright.

“Feyre,” he begins seriously, taking a step towards me. “What’s wrong?”

“You mean besides running into my worst nightmare at the coffee cart?” I practically yell at him. “Or having a full out panic attack over it in front of my boss?”

“Yes,” is all Rhys tells me, careful.

“I just—” I swallow. My throat is still dry from all the freaking out, but I find the idea of drinking the discarded coffee very unappealing.

I stand up suddenly, my knees trembling under the expectation of holding me up. Dizziness threatens me, but I make myself stand tall, pretend I’m okay when I am, in fact, very not okay.

Rhys remains silent, but his body tenses. I can’t decide if it’s because he’s afraid of what I’m going to say, or if it’s because he’s worried that I might fall.

“You need to leave me alone.” The sentence tastes like ash in my mouth. “Am—_I want_ you to leave me alone.”

Rhys’s posture becomes defensive; I recognize it from the last time we were in the same room. Upstairs in a gilded office, fighting over nothing. When it comes down to it, Rhysand protects himself just like anyone else.

“As you wish,” the CXO tells me, making a show of rebuttoning his jacket. “Now, go home.”

The man sweeps from the office just like that; he doesn’t even take a second look back at me. It’s like Rhys could care less about my having rejected him, or worse, that he’s decided not to fight for me. I don’t know what upsets me more.

## New Years’ Eve

“So, I’m guessing your life as an indentured servant means that you can’t come to my New Years party, right?” Morrigan begins casually from where she’s sprawled across my couch that evening.

I eye her apologetically from where I stand in the kitchen. I’d gone home exactly like Rhys ordered me and spent the majority of the day trying to forget the sensation of Tamlin’s hand on my back. Mor called right around when I usually clocked out for the day, back in town and ready to reconnect.

I tried to blow her off, feign being ill, but my friend apparently had some weird sixth sense about these things. Morrigan showed up with half an hour, bearing wine and take out, and I hadn’t had the heart to turn her away. She could tell, even now, that something was bothering me, but Mor was waiting for me to start that conversation.

I feel bad about it; I know it looks like I’m purposefully finding excuses to get out of spending time with her and her friends. Mor is so kind and welcoming; I bet all of her friends are as well. Yet, I’ve had to turn down every invite extended to me because of one Hybern thing or another.

“Yeah, I’m very sorry, Mor,” I tell her with no small amount of guilt. “I swear I’m not trying to blow you off. I—“

_You never have time for me anymore._ He’d say.

“I promise I’ll make some time for you,” I swear, quickly. My heart races for no particular reason, and I feel a familiar cold sweat break out across my skin.

Gods, it was so easy for him to get back into my fucking head.

“Hey, Feyfey. I know you’re busy,” Mor interrupts me, voice eerily calm. She sits up, though, attune to my mood. She’s noticed; of course, she has.

I’m so thankful for Mor. I’m happy she’s back from vacation. I’ve missed her obnoxious presence in my life, my home. A bright ray of sunshine in the dark.

“Feyre,” Mor begins carefully, and it surprises me. I didn’t think she was capable of sounding so... timid. My grace period must be up then; I recognize the look on her face, the worry in her brown eyes. “You know if something is going on, with work or life or whatever, you can talk to me about it, right?”

My thoughts immediately snag on Rhys. I long to talk over the confusing situation I'm in with her, and I could get a new set of eyes on the puzzle that is the dark-haired man who’s crept into my life and made a place for himself without my permission. I want Mor to tell me what to do, what she thinks.

I want Mor to tell me I’m not a total asshole for chasing him off. Again. After Rhys was so kind to me. Helpful. Understanding.

Then I think of Lucien. The Morrigan of my old life. The one who stayed to help me clean up my apartment. The one I used to come to with anything and everything with only minimal, lighthearted judgment.

That brings my thoughts to Amarantha and Tamlin. The two villains in my mind. One a jealous woman. And the other a man.

I bite my lip to keep from laughing and making Mor think I’m crazy. What an understatement.

“Everything’s fine, Mor,” I lie, and the words sound false even to my own ears. “But yes, I know. Love you, too.”

Mor looks unconvinced, but like always, she doesn’t pressure me to say anymore.

## Flowers

On the morning of the party, I arrive prepared for a stressful day, garment bag over one arm, and my purse on the other shoulder. To distract Morrigan from my problems, and myself a little, I asked the other girl to take me out shopping. Little did I realize what I’d gotten myself into.

The office is mostly empty still. There’s no one around because it’s so early, but I don’t mind. It gives me time to wake up and get settled in.

I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t because of bad dreams, though, not for once. Instead, guilt gnawed at me as I ran over and over the conversation I had with Rhys. I couldn’t fathom how I was going to look him in the eye again. I’d been so cruel to him. Dismissive.

I sigh, settling into my office chair and putting my face in my hands. There was nothing that I could do about it now; that was a problem for later. For now, I needed to finalize our budgets, pass them up the ladder to Nuala to take a look at, then for approval via the man in question.

Then I notice them. The flowers.

A beautiful arrangement of blood-red roses, baby’s breath integrated amongst them. A dozen. No question sent them. Tamlin always said roses were more beautiful than the water lilies I was so fond of. They were elegant, sophisticated. Everything that Tamlin was looking for out of me.

Quickly, before anyone can arrive and see them, I snatch the flowers and their beautiful vase off of the corner of my desk. How did he even get them here before the day started? No one was there to sign for them. That meant he’d sent someone to get them, to pick them up and place them just so on the desk.

For me to find. His apology.

I curse whoever aided Tamlin under my breath as I rush for the ladies’ room as far away from my desk as possible. I shove the flowers into the silver trash can, vase and all, and I flush the card down the nearest toilet without even looking at the message inside. I watch it carefully, making sure it disappears completely.

Tamlin _worked here._

I needed another job—immediately.

I collide into someone on my way out of the bathroom. I yelp, loudly, with surprise—only to look up and find Lucien, smiling at me in apology and shoving his hands into his pocket.

“Fucking hell, Luc!” I shout at him, shoving him once as hard as I could manage. He merely laughs, amused, and has the nerve to barely flinch at my attack.

“Gods, your face,” he tells me, eyes crinkled. “You should’ve seen it, I mean—“

I hit him harder this time, using the knowledge and strength I’ve acquired from Cassian; how dare he find so much joy in my fear. The jerk!

The blow to Lucien’s gut is hard enough to make him bow over and gasp for breath. He looks up at me with wide eyes. Serves him right. Bastard.

“Shit, where’d you learn to do that?” Lucien asks, eyes watering.

My smile is evil; I can feel it. “A lady never tells.”

Janice walks in at that moment, catching us grinning like thieves at each other and claps her hands together. “Excellent, you’ve already met. That takes care of the formalities.”

Guilt and worry flash in Lucien’s eyes. I hope my smile looks more confident than I feel. “What’s going on?”

Janice smooths her pencil skirt, looking around the office. She’s probably wondering what I’m doing all the way over here when there’s a perfectly good bathroom on our side of the floor.

“We’re going to be getting started on a new project today,” Janice tells me with a cheery smile. I can feel Lucien watching me closely, and I work very hard to hide my panic. Can’t a girl catch a break?

“We’re going to be assisting Spring Corp with their move,” my boss looks positively elated by the idea. “Tamlin asked for us specifically.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All errors are my own. I'm a sickly, voiceless editor today. *shrugs*


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter to make up for the wait. :)

## Funeral March

The walk upstairs feels like a funeral march. I trail after Janice quietly, who struts her stuff down the dark hallways of the executive floor with an ease I do not share.

I spy Nuala perched behind the front desk, and for a brief second, she meets my eye with a look.

_You shouldn’t be here._ Her face says it all.

Don’t I know it.

“I thought you were going to find another job,” Lucien says under his breath to me when Janice isn’t paying attention. I look at him from the corner of my eye. Meddlesome Lucien.

“No,” I tell him. I have to try hard to keep my frustration from showing in my voice, from raising it and catching Janice’s attention. “You told me to get another job, and I said that I’d think about it.”

Lucien huffs. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

“Why Lucien,” I smile at him, “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“This way,” Cerridwen tells Janice as we turn a corner.

I can’t decide if I’m relieved or distressed when we head in the opposite direction of Rhys’s office. I’m not ready to face him, but at the same time, I think I’d like to have him nearby. At least, I have Lucien at my side.

My heart starts to race at the sound of voices in the distance. That familiar booming laugh makes my blood turn cold. When Lucien places his hand at my back to keep me moving, I realize that I stopped, hesitated. I flash him a wan smile in thanks.

“So, what is it exactly that we’ll be doing?” I ask, praying that my voice doesn’t shake as badly as my hands are. The look Janice sends my way tells me to be quiet. Ugh, of course, she chooses now to show her ass.

“Mr. Spring requested assistance getting the company files in order,” Cerridwen explains in that practiced voice I hardly recognize now. I got to know her briefly, and soon hearing her talk to me like I’m a stranger is disconcerting.

“Someone mentioned the great work your department did last quarter for the creative teams on 67th,” the twin continues, “Mr. Spring called you in.”

Great. Filing.

Yet, there’s something in the woman’s voice that tells me what I don’t want to hear, words she wouldn’t be able to say in front of the rest of the people present anyway. Lucien’s face confirms it for me.

Tamlin figured out what department I was in and found an excuse to get me to work with him.

“And all because of your excellent work, Feyre,” Janice praises me. I wish she wouldn’t. My skills and hard work aren’t what caught the attention of _Mr. Spring. _

## Conference Room

I recognize each of the men in the room, and I am immediately struck, not the first time in my life, by the image of powerful men being served by women. And Lucien.

The horrible older man from the elevator those weeks ago, Beron, sits at the head of the table. His posture is proud and cruel, but I do get to take a little bit of pride in the way his complexion pales a bit at the sight of me. Eris, his son, sits to his side.

Tamlin sits opposite Eris, wearing that charismatic mask of his that only the outside world gets to see. Even here in front of all of these people, I can see the chips in it. The tightness of his jaw and the glint of possession in his eye, those are because of me. Because even now, I won’t bend to his will.

I wonder how mad he was that I left him standing there by Suriel’s coffee cart, that I didn’t listen to him when he yelled at me to come back to him. I was never going back.

Rhysand Night is an unexpected addition. I hate how my heart leaps at the sight of him. Even as my brain tells me that I need to be avoiding him, that I’m afraid of what Amarantha or Mr. Attor will do, I’m happy to see him.

Those violet eyes pass over me with little recognition, and my heart falls. I deserved that, more probably.

Cerridwen floats to stand behind him, face impassive.

I try to focus on something, the food on the table or the picture hanging on the wall opposite me, but all I can focus on, all I can feel, is the burning sensation of Tamlin’s green eyes on me. I think my face is flushed, and my vision is a little fuzzy. I’m going to have another panic attack.

“Right,” Rhysand purrs, looking bored. “This is Janice and her assistant Feyre.”

He says my name improperly, almost on purpose. My eyes snap to him without permission, but Rhysand still doesn’t look at me. He’s watching Tamlin, assessing the man’s reaction as he says, “Which you are already aware of, of course.”

There’s venom laced there, in Rhys’s words. I’m confused. I’m hopeful.

“Janice is the mastermind,” he continues. “She’ll assist you with whatever you need. Lucien can be your go-between.”

She tries to hide it, but I just make out the sharp intake of breath Janice takes. A glance at her tells me that she isn’t pleased with this decision. I’m still not sure why that is; I thought Janice was happy that we were picked to aid Spring Corp. Another powerful businessman for her to suck up to.

The thought makes me nauseous. I realize that I haven’t seen Ianthe yet. Is she around here somewhere? Lucien said she was still working for Tamlin, that she hid the fact that she knew I was working here. Did she get in trouble for lying by omission, or did that oily snake talk her way out of it?

“Feyre is responsible for overseeing my party tonight,” Rhysand continues, and suddenly, I understand what is happening. He’s... sparing me. “And without another party soon, I suppose I can adopt her into my team for the time being. There's always enough work to go around. On a trial basis, of course.”

Janice practically gets a demotion back to a secretary, and I get promoted to the CXO’s assistant—one of three. It’s like Rhys is trying to ruin my life.

Beron tilts his head, drags his sinister dark eyes across my face, down my body. Tamlin’s feathers are clearly ruffled by the apparent observation of my body. It makes me angry; he has no right to feel possessive of me. I hang onto the anger, stoke the flames instead of stomping them out. I’d rather be angry than scared.

“What about me?” he asks.

“I,” Rhys drawls, tapping bored fingers across the beautiful, polished wood of the conference room, “still don’t know what it is exactly you’re doing here.”

Beron flushes, and Lucien bites his lip in amusement. That’s surprising. Lucien rarely allows his mask to slip during business meetings.

“I,” Beron stutters. Lucien’s body trembles with his laughter. It’s a good thing I’m so caught off guard; I never was able to resist sharing his amusement in our own time. We’d always get into trouble with Tamlin for our giggles; I don’t think now would be any different.

“Beron,” Tamlin informs Rhysand, “is here to see his son, I’d wager.”

Lucien wiggles his fingers at him. “Hey, Dad.”

_Oh_.

Rhysand’s eyes slide back and forth between the two men. Then, at last, they land on me.

“Right,” Rhysand echoes his earlier disinterest. He rises from the table. “Well, the ladies and I have a party to get ready for. We’ll be leaving now.”

The way he says the words. It almost sounds like I’m his date.

“Wait,” Tamlin stops Rhys. No one in the room could miss the jealousy clouding his eyes. “Feyre should work with me. We’ve worked together in the past. No need for an awkward phase.”

There’s a snort. I realize it’s mine.

Tamlin flushes, but Rhys is quick to dismiss the Spring Corp head’s demands. It appears he's lost some of his power in merging with Hybern. Sold it for purposes I can't figure out.

Rhys persists. “She and I are already well acquainted. We work well together. Besides, didn’t she quit working with you? And come here?”

“How dare you,” Tamlin snarls, forgetting his mask. “Feyre is my—”

“I don’t care,” Rhysand tells him, straightening his jacket and heading for the door. Cerridwen is right behind him. She subtly grips my arm and takes me with her as we leave.

## Danger

“You should not have done that,” I say as we walk towards Rhys’s offices. I’m relieved, yes, but I’m also terrified. I think I just got hired by Rhys—for how long? Where’s Amarantha? How long will it take her or her thug to hear about the job change?

What’s going to happen to me now?

Maybe I _should _quit.

Rhys doesn’t acknowledge that I said anything; he leads us down the hallway, and Nuala meets us at his door, holds it open for us.

Frustrated with his attitude, I snap. “I don’t need you to protect me. In fact, I don’t need your help at all.”

“Well, maybe I need you to protect me,” Rhysand purrs. “You can’t possibly expect me to spend the next month working side by side with Janice.”

His shudders. I don’t think it’s for show.

“You’re not funny,” I hiss at him. “None of this is funny.”

“Now that we agree on,” his voice holds an edge to it. The twins share one of their silent looks and disappear into the next room.

Alone, we take a moment to size each other up. Rhysand’s hands are tucked into his pockets, and his expression is hard, serious. I cross my arms defensively, angry.

“I know what game you’re playing at,” I tell him. “It’s not helpful. It’s not going to make him leave me alone. It’ll only make _everything_ worse. So—stop.”

“Would you rather go work with him? Spend every day with him?”

“No,” I say much too quickly. “But I can’t be here with you either. I told you to leave me alone.”

A playful smile. “Maybe I just can’t help myself. You’re so charming.”

“I quit.”

His face falls, surprised. Something tells me Rhys isn’t surprised very often. “What?”

“I said: I quit.”

“Feyre—”

“I can’t work here anymore. Not with him, and I’m supposed to stay away from you.” I flap my arms at my sides. “So, I have to quit. So, I quit."

"I quit," I repeat again, more firmly. "I don’t work here anymore. Immediately.”

“I don’t accept your resignation,” Rhys tells me, jaw set in stubbornness.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing that I technically don’t work for you,” I explain, shrugging my shoulders. “Besides, I wasn't giving notice. I’m leaving. Now.”

I’m surprised when he steps in my way, blocking me from the exit. Fear strikes me through the heart, and my breathing picks up. It’s not that I think Rhys is going to hurt me, and I think if I pushed my way past him, he’d let me by. I’m just—

Afraid.

“Tell me why,” Rhys demands in a soft whisper.

“Because,” I whine. “I’m not safe here.”

“You’ll always be safe,” he promises. “But that isn’t what I was asking you.”

I look up at him and away from my feet. Rhys’s eyes are burning with emotion. He clenches his hands at his sides as if he’d like to take me by the shoulders, but he won’t touch me without permission.

_I’m supposed to stay away from you._

He’d managed to catch that little tidbit.

“I—” I pause. Swallow. “There are people here who don’t want me to work alongside you.”

Such deafening silence follows. Rhys’s face is unreadable as he processes the information internally.

Then: “She threatened you, didn’t she?”

I have to look away from him. So, I stare out the tinted glass walls to the building across from us. My face heats with the feeling of his eyes on me.

“What did she do?”

His voice is death. I look at him, surprised by his tone, and I find such incredible anger there that I take a step back from him. It’s a cruel, old instinct of mine. Rhysand doesn’t look away from me; he watches my every move, waits for an explanation. I feel sorry for anyone that finds themselves his prey.

I have to clear my throat before I can speak.

“She... left me a message.”

## A Promise and An Offer

I tell Rhys about the break-in, and if I was surprised by his anger earlier, it pales in comparison to the way he reacts to my confession. The man in front of me stands stock still, only the occasional nod to let me know he’s listening. Rhys’s eyes darken when I mention my run-in with Clare, but he perks up when I mention Lucien and his help.

“I didn’t realize you remained close to Lucien after leaving Spring Corp,” he says, subtly referring to my unexplained relationship with Tamlin. I never confirmed or denied Tamlin’s proclamation that I was engaged to him, but I assumed my consequential reaction was answer enough.

“We’re... friends,” I say, unsure of the honesty of that statement. I wanted it to be accurate, but it was complicated.

Rhys nods then asks the question I’ve been dreading, “And Tamlin.”

I pale. “He was,” I have to pause, swallow. “We were—”

I can’t say the words. Rhys seems to sense this.

“You’re afraid of him.”

I nod, flush at the confession.

We’re silent for a while; then Rhys rises from where he leans against his desk, sighing deeply. Those violet eyes turn on me full of promise.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Feyre,” Rhys swears in a voice so solemn it steals my breath. “You have my word. I’ll keep Amarantha and Tamlin off of your trail in exchange for something in return.”

I give him a skeptical look. What could he possibly want from me?

A saccharine smile. “I need you to stay employed here at Hybern—just for a little while longer.”

“I could just quit, you know,” I rebuke. “I won’t need any protection if I just leave.”

Rhys nods. “This is true, but I like to think you’ll miss me when you go.”

My face shows my shock. He’s bold, I’ll give him that. Rhys’s eyes sparkle, and I growl at him. “Prick.”

“Perhaps,” he shrugs his shoulders, eye alight with mischief. “But I think you like that about me.”

“So, I stay, and you protect me from Amarantha?” I repeat. “That’s it? You don’t have some sinister plan for me that you’re going to drop into my lap once I agree?”

A flash of a smile. This one feline. Male. “I could come up with a few if you’d like.”

“You’re not doing yourself any favors,” I inform him.

“On the contrary,” Rhys observes, “that pretty blush on your cheeks tells me I’m doing just fine.”

“The amount of money I could make with a sexual harassment lawsuit against you could set me up for years,” I tell him in defense of the embarrassment I feel.

Rhys grins, “That it would. Everyone would love a chance to hear about my depraved ways.”

The honesty and belief in his words make the smile I wear fall away. It’s true, though. No one in Prythian would ever believe Rhysand Night to behave like the man standing in front of me was. Kind, helpful—no one would believe it.

His smiling eyes meet mine, and the amusement vanishes. His smile turns self-deprecating.

“It’s alright, Feyre,” Rhys tells me. “I don’t mind what people think about me.”

A lie. I let it slide.

“I’ll stay,” I tell him because the thought of leaving this smiling, quick-witted man behind breaks my heart.

The smile becomes joyous, but there’s an edge to it.

“It’s a bargain.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, loves. I know my updating has been erratic. Here's our next update!

## Organized Chaos

Of all the things I thought Rhys would set me to doing, filing paperwork was not it. I was confident the man was going to find some excuse to keep me near him, to entertain him for the rest of the afternoon, but perhaps, that was just my ego talking, the part of me that thought Rhys was as eager to spend time with me as I was with him.

Maybe it was for the best. After all, Amarantha still had it out for me, and it’s been far too long since I last saw Mr. Attor. Even with Rhys’s solemn promise that I would be protected, I am at risk by being here; I suppose that means I’m wary of trusting Rhys, pushing him away as much as I want him nearby. Yet, I find it hard to blame myself for the doubt.

Things will be better when Alis comes home, I tell myself. I’ve always had a hard time living alone; I get paranoid and skittish—having my door bashed in was a real help.

“What are you guys doing?” I ask the twins. They’ve been bent over a pile of paperwork for the better part of an hour. I’m curious as to what it is they’re doing. It looks a hell of a lot more interesting than what I’ve got on my plate.

Rhys is a neat and tidy sort of guy when it comes to his appearance, but it would appear that when it comes to his paperwork, his desk, and the rest of his office, Rhys is very unorganized.

_Organized chaos,_ he’d called it with a smirk. Then he’d vanished into the hallway without further explanation.

Nuala and Cerridwen share one of their silent looks. Their smiles are apologetic when they turn their identical dark eyes on me.

“I’m afraid that is up to Rhysand,” Cerridwen says in her whisper-soft voice, “to share with you.”

“For now, we have to keep you to the filing,” Nuala explains. Her voice is firmer than her sister’s, more confident. “All in due time, though; I suspect.”

I must give them an exasperated look because the sisters smile fondly at me before I turn away and head back to organizing Rhys’s _chaos._ The interaction leaves me with a lot of questions, but they’re ones I decide to save for Rhys, wherever he’s wandered off to.

## Filing

I receive a text from Mor just after lunch.

> **MOR @ 2:12 PM**
> 
> **How’s your day going?**

Not to be paranoid, but I highly suspect that she and Alis are communicating behind my back in some sort of joint-take-care-of-Feyre operation. I want to be offended by their sneaking around; however, it’s nice to know some people care so much about me, that want to know how my lame Friday is going.

> **FEYRE @ 2:15 PM**
> 
> **I am filing.**
> 
> **MOR @ 2:15 PM**
> 
> **Ouch.**
> 
> **Remember to send me a pic of you all dressed up.**
> 
> **FEYRE @ 2:18 PM**
> 
> **Got it!**

Another text comes through at the same time that I press send. It’s a picture—of Mor. She’s making a rather suggestive face, and I can’t help the laugh that barks out of me. _Can’t wait to see a picture of my hot girlfriend, _the text says.

> **FEYRE @ 2:20 PM**
> 
> **Girlfriend? Did I get demoted??**

“Texting on the clock, are we, darling?” A familiar voice purrs over my shoulder, and I immediately glare at Rhys, who’s finally deigned to reappear. He flashes a feline smile, glances at the screen. I try to turn off the screen, but I think he gets a look before I manage.

“Oh,” His voice is clinical, devoid of expression. His face, too.

“What?” I jump to the defensive.

“Your girlfriend is very pretty,” Rhys tells me, walking away. “How long have you known each other?”

It takes my brain a moment to figure out that he means Mor, that to Rhys, our longstanding joke seems like the real thing. I laugh.

“Mor isn’t my girlfriend. She’s my best friend,” I explain, “but she’s very fond of telling other people we’re together. Like her actual girlfriend.”

Something mischievous glimmers in Rhys’s eyes as he claims the seat behind his desk. Like a king poised on his throne. “She sounds like a lot of fun—and trouble.”

“She is,” I agree, “but I like her better for it.”

## The Party

Nuala and Cerridwen peek over my mountain of files a little while later. Rhys has vanished again, and I’m starting to wonder just how much of this new position will actually have us in the same room.

I eye them. Their expressions have me very suspicious. “Can I help you?”

They share a silent look, then turn to me. “It’s nearly time for the party—and you haven’t even gone home yet.”

I purse my lips at Nuala’s accusations. “I was just going to go straight to the party from the office. I brought my dress with me and everything.”

Cerridwen looks outraged. “But—”

“We will help you get ready,” Nuala tells me, laying a hand on her sister’s arm to silence her.

“Uh, okay?” My words trail off into a question. I’m not sure why I need help putting on the dress. I don’t have plans for my hair or makeup or anything of the sort. I even wore a pair of heels to work that’d match the dress. It was just a party—that I was attending for work.

Their answering smiles make me reconsider my decision nearly immediately.

The twins lead me to an empty bathroom, gilded and immaculate like the rest of this floor. It puts the restroom by my usual office to shame.

All at once, the women assault me with beauty products. I snort when Nuala undoes my chignon, tutting about my need for a trim, and then I yelp, when Cerridwen appears with a pair of small, silver hair scissors.

“Careful, Feyre _darling_,” the quieter twin coos. I’ve learned she has a sly, quiet sort of wit; I'm always on the lookout for Cerridwen. “Or I’ll accidentally cut too much, and then you’ll have a bob.”

Nuala clicks her teeth. “She could pull it off.” An evil smile. “Maybe we should do it.”

“Please don’t!” I cry, and the sisters laugh. I kind of hate them, and I kind of I love them, too.

## A Fuss

Torture complete, Nuala helps me into my dress as Cerridwen inspects me one final time. I huff at all the attention I’m being given. No one is going to care about what I look like at this party. Except for Tamlin.

I suppress a shudder. I can only hope that he won’t be there, that he finds the thought of going to Rhys’s party too unbearable.

“So,” I say, holding my breath as Nuala zips me into the beautiful black silk. The dress is a little tight, but Mor insisted. Sometimes it’s easier to give in with her. “Why exactly, do the two of you have a beauty salon stashed away in one of the executive floor bathrooms?”

The women share another of their silent looks. It’s like I’m forever left out of some ongoing secret conversation. I raise a brow at their silence.

“Some people aren’t as pretty naturally as you, Feyre,” Nuala tells me point-blank. “Your freckles give you an unfair advantage.”

Thank you—I think,” I tell them carefully.

Cerridwen checks the time. “Well, that should do it. Would you like to send a picture to your friend now?”

“Yes,” I tell them, handing over my phone so she can snap a picture. The twin holds the phone, analyzing the shot through the lenses, while Nuala directs me on my pose.

At the last second, I stick out my tongue. Nuala bursts into laughter, but Cerridwen frowns in disapproval. I look at the picture of me briefly and send it, but it’s the time that really catches my attention.

“Shit,” I swear. “I’m so late.”

The twins look unbothered. “Rhysand told us to have you ready by eight,” Nuala tells me.

Cerridwen shrugs, “It’s only 8:20. He’ll forgive you when he sees you.”

I ignore the blunt suggestion. I was supposed to be there hours ago. Turning from the women with a quick thanks, I flee the bathroom and hurry back towards Rhys’s office, where I left my things.

I find Rhys standing there, pacing back and forth with his hands in his pockets. When he sees me, his eyes light up like Christmas day, and he gives me an appraising look without shame.

I really don’t look bad, bathed in glimmering black silk. Morrigan coerced me, as she does many things, into picking a one-sleeved option, and Nuala was quick to pin my hair back on the opposite side, playing on my choice of dress. It hugs my curves, which have returned at long last, and a long slit cuts up one leg to midthigh. It’s a daring option; certainly braver than anything I would have picked out myself.

Rhys quickly covers his appreciation by checking the time on his watch. He sighs, “Those two do love to fuss. Now, we’ll be late for our very own party.”

His choice of words isn’t lost on me. “Ours?”

“You planned it all, darling,” Rhys purrs, offering me his arm. I’m hesitant to take it, my mind going back to the red paint running down my apartment wall. “You might as well get to enjoy it—as my guest.”

“And it’ll piss of Amarantha,” I guess, and Rhys’s eyes light up at my cleverness.

His smile is male. “And Tamlin, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've a pretty solid idea of what happens in the next chapter, but there's a lot of action to come (spoiler?) so it may take a bit to nail down just right.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been a month since my last update. Adulting is hard. Time flies.  
Here's a slightly longer than usual update. I decided to give you all the party scenes in one go. I hope they live up to the hype!

## Champagne

The venue for the New Year's Party is even more beautiful than the Halloween one. The place is elegant, with high ceilings and bright chandeliers. The marble floor shines brightly, clicking against my heels as Rhys leads us into the party.

He'd ordered the driver to take us around the back. At first, I thought he was ashamed of me, and despite not wanting to attract attention, it irritated me that he'd hide me from sight. I'm a far cry from the beauty that is Amarantha, I know, but that doesn't give Rhys the right to act ashamed of me. Not after he brought me along with him of his own accord.

Now from where we stand, I can make out the flashing lights of cameras, poised to capture pictures of the rich and famous coming to Rhys's party—the party I planned. I feel foolish for forgetting the red carpet, but then again, I never thought I was going to be in a position to be significant enough for the fuss. However, as I stand to Rhys's side, my arm linked in his, I realize Rhysand Night's date would be exciting to the public. The notorious playboy taking a date to the party he's thrown for his former (or current?) lover's company.

Rhys was sparing me, I realize. Trying to keep me from being the center of attention, while also wanting to keep me close enough to keep an eye on me, keep me safe from those lurking in the shadows.

"You've done a lovely job, darling," Rhys tells me. It's incredible how he can sound so genuine while wearing such a bored expression. It's all part of the mask, I realize. I don't know Rhys as well as I thought I did. "This place looks like something out of a magazine."

"Thank you," I tell him, feeling warm. And shy. "Your contributions were most helpful."

"Yes, without me, this party would have terrible champagne," Rhys tells me, and a smirk plays at his lips, the mask crumbling. "You can't have a good party without good champagne."

"And definitely not a bad one," I say through a smile, beckoning a server and taking two filled glasses of the aforementioned drink for us. I hand one to Rhys, who bites his lip as if to fight off a laugh.

"How right you are, darling," he tells me. It isn't the champagne that's making me feel warm and bubbly now.

## Fiancé

It's the laugh that gives them away. Syrupy and high-pitched, I'd know that shriek of a sound anywhere. I tense immediately, horrified. My eyes locate Ianthe without permission, and sure enough, there she is, hanging off of my ex-fiancé's arm. She looks like nothing more than a decoration. Ianthe is certainly dressed for the role, a string of pearls around her neck, and a skin-tight white cocktail dress clings to her every curve.

Tamlin senses my gaze, and I blanch under the heat of it when drinks me in. He doesn't fail to notice how I hang on Rhys's arm. He looks furious, which warns me that Tamlin has not yet forgotten the incident in the boardroom, how I ignored him—mocked him in front of his peers by snorting. If he can get me alone, there'll be hell to pay.

"I won't let that bastard anywhere near you," Rhys promises under his breath as if he's read my thoughts. We've taken up a spot in the shadows, just close enough to the gathering to be seen but appear unapproachable. I wonder if this is how Rhys survives in these circles, by looking unsociable. He's in, without having to partake.

Or is he? I think back to the last party I planned, one he also attended. Rhys appeared at the end of the gathering, arising out of thin air supposedly for the sole purpose of surprising me. He claimed he hadn't planned to attend until he suspected that I was there, but had he been there in the shadows longer than I thought? Watching me?

I chance a glance at him. Rhys's eyes are warm, so unlike Tamlin's, when they meet mine. I don't think I'd mind it if he admitted he was there, watching me, back at the Halloween party; I don't think I care that he watches me now. Which is, to say the least, confusing.

"I wouldn't be so sure you had a say in the matter," I whisper back to him, returning to the topic at hand. Rhys's grip on my arm tightens; he doesn't seem to have liked my answer.

"You have a history," Rhys says carefully. I've noticed that Rhys doesn't use Tamlin's name, but unlike me, I don't think it's due to fear. "He called you his... fiancé."

"You want to do this now?" I hiss, one eyebrow arched, but Rhys only shrugs. He won't make eye contact with me. So, the answer to his question must matter. I sigh, "I—used to be. A long time ago."

"You left him," Rhys tells me. It isn't a question.

"I ran away from him," I correct. I'm surprised by how even my voice is, determined and firm. If only I could muster such confidence when face to face with my abuser. "It's not the same... as leaving him."

"No, it's not," Rhys agrees. His grip doesn't lessen on my arm. "It makes you stronger."

His kind words nearly knock me off my feet. Rhys finally glances at me, worry in his eyes. My smile is a little watery.

"Thank you," I tell him. "For understanding."

His face is unreadable. "I understand better than you think, Feyre darling."

## Arrival

Amarantha Hybern enters the party like a dark storm cloud. Partygoers avert their eyes, afraid to make eye contact with the Hybern Princess. The band falters for all of a heartbeat, but they're quick to recover, ever professionals. The warm, bubbly feeling of the champagne in my blood evaporates as she looks towards us.

Amarantha's eyes immediately lock onto Rhys, then slide to where I stand at his side. I have to fight not to let go of his arm. It would be the most straightforward plan of action, and the best way to keep her target off my back, but something in me rises to challenge her. Who is this woman to make me so fearful of her? Why must I cower?

Red paint returns to my memory. Amarantha's emerald eyes burn my skin, filled with dangerous amusement and curiosity. My confidence falters.

"This is a terrible way of making sure nothing happens to me," I hiss at Rhys underneath my breath. I'll never get the deposit back on the apartment at this rate. He just grins in Amarantha's direction, unaffected in the face of danger. If only I could be so brave.

"How do you like my party, Am?" Rhys asks the woman as she stops in front of us. Amarantha drinks in the sight of us, head tilted to the side like a bird of prey, calculating. Rhys continues, "Feyre worked very hard on it."

I'm going to kill him, I think. That is if I don't get killed first.

"It's pleasant enough," Amarantha says at long last. The room lets out a sigh of relief collectively, and I'm shocked by how many people in the room fear the Hyberns. Why would they come here if they were all so afraid?

I think of myself and of the position of such little power I hold. I suppose I'm here for the same reason: I need them, and because I'm stubborn as hell—an Archeron family trait.

Rhys's eyes light up at her words, "I know it's not up to your usual standards, but we can't exactly throw that kind of party in public now, can we?"

His voice is a low, breathy purr, and even if Rhys is playing fire, the tone of his voice washes over me. That voice could get a lot of people to do a lot of things.

Amarantha smiles, "Maybe later. You should bring your _friend_."

As she walks away, I don't know what to make of her words. Rhys clears his throat, and his fingers dance at their spot at my elbow, a soothing gesture, and, more importantly, a wordless one because everyone is watching us now, even those who chose to ignore us earlier.

"What do you say we get some more champagne?" Rhys drawls, guiding me away from the spotlight and back towards the shadows.

## Alliances

From our spot in the shadows, we watch. I try to pretend I'm surprised when Amarantha sweeps across the ballroom towards Tamlin, but I'm not, not really. Of course, they've met. Amarantha herself was likely the one to bring the head of Spring Inc into Hybern's fold. I wonder what deal she offered Tamlin. Based on my memories, he'd never sell his legacy to another cooperation, but here we were.

"What can you tell me," Rhys whispers. He flashes a dazzling smile to the couple walking by, considering whether or not to say hello, "about Tamlin's work?"

I'm surprised by the question. It doesn't seem like the time or place. "It's marketing mostly… Public relations for different companies. Truthfully, I didn't have access to most of the topics; I just booked the meetings."

"Tamlin never mentioned anything to you that seemed out of place," Rhys asks, taking a sip of his drink. "Something that seemed odd or, I don't know, strangely vague?"

"Strangely vague?" I send my companion a look, and Rhys chuckles. Yet, he seems disappointed by my answers, which makes me feel guilty. I want to impress this man I hardly know, but I don't know what I'm looking for.

"What're you up to?" I ask, finally, because I can't handle it anymore. "The twins—"

"Are excellent at what they do," Rhys interrupts, violet eyes sliding away from me and over my shoulder. A quick glance tells me that we've attracted some new admirers, eavesdropping in on our every word. I wonder who they report back to.

"As for you, well," Rhys's voice drops an octave, but he maintains the proper volume for our audience to overhear. One long finger runs across my temple, tucking away a stray hair behind my ear. Every nerve in my body ignites, and I shudder at the touch. Rhys's eyes twinkle with the promise for trouble, "I have a lot of plans for you, darling. And they all start with getting you out—"

"Rhysand," Lucien's familiar voice interrupts whatever dirty promises Rhys was about to make very, very publically. "Amarantha asked to see you. Alone."

I don't know why I flush with shame at the look Lucien sends me, but my blood heats, and I know my cheeks have turned crimson underneath my makeup. My old friend's eyes burn with questions, but neither he nor I can get any answers right now. Not with everyone looking our way.

"You shouldn't be here, Feyre," Lucien warns me; he says the words without moving his lips. Rhys leaves with a solemn glance over his shoulder at me. I miss his warmth immediately.

"Neither should you," I return in earnest. It's true.

Those russet eyes shutter and Lucien's jaw muscle twitches as he grinds his teeth, "Go home before something happens to you, please. I can't—I can only do so much."

He leaves me behind with that. I know he's right. Without Rhys at my side, I'm a sitting duck. A sea of predators dances in the ballroom, each and every one of them chancing a look in my direction, waiting to see who will fill the spot that Rhys has vacated. I wonder who that person will be.

## Escape

It's Ianthe, of all people, that approaches me. Dread twists my stomach as I watch her bright and shining face head my way. Gods, do I want nothing to do with that woman. As she crosses the space, my eyes dart everywhere, looking for just one person to give me the opening I need to escape.

Janice saves me. She appears at my side with a scowl, "Well? If you're quite done socializing, I have some work for you."

I've never been happier to see the woman. I grin, "Absolutely. What do you need?"

She blinks at me, surprised by my willingness. It's a little insulting, really; I've never been anything by completely helpful to Janice. "This way."

Janice sets me to work on the menial task of procuring more ice from the back. It seems like something a server could do, but then my boss instructs me to take upstairs to another room. I'm halfway up the elevator when I realize my mistake.

The doors slide open to a den of smoke and alcohol. This is the party that Amarantha was looking for—debauchery is the word I'd use. I recognize some of the men. Eris, and his brothers, occupy a sitting area by the window, a woman across each lap. The oldest Vanserra perks up at the sight of me, waving me over, but I turn in the other direction and flee.

It's the wrong move. I walk right into the man's father, Beron Vanserra. The man flashes me a lecherous smile, reaching out to catch me by my upper arms. His fingers are pressure points on my arms, and the look in his face makes my stomach roil.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry, love?" Beron's eyes are hazy. Someone's been indulging in something a little stronger than champagne. I wrinkle my nose, and he laughs.

"Just delivering ice," I say, ducking under one of his arms and running away from him. I dodge his attempts to grab at me as I leave and enter the next room.

It's more of the same; department executives from every branch of the Hybern tree lounge around. Some of the men and women are indulging in one another, hands wandering and tongues down each other's throats. What the hell have I walked into?

I abandon the ice by the bar, making a plan to run for the elevator and rejoin the other party. The mild one downstairs. My skin crawls just being here, and I don't want to stay any longer than necessary or risk drawing more attention to myself.

On my way out, I spy Lucien. He's gathered with a few men I don't recognize, likely people from Spring Corp. A woman perches on his knee, one arm draped across his shoulders; Lucien's hand rests modestly on her waist. From the way his face is drawn, I can tell he's uncomfortable, forced to pretend to be interested in these horrible games to survive. I wish he were home with Andras; he likely does as well.

I take a step in his direction, planning to ask for an escort home. It would give him an opportunity to escape this hellhole—one for me, too.

A pair of hands grab me before I get very far, and I yelp in surprise, nearly screaming. Although I don't think anyone would have come to my rescue had they heard. A sobering thought. I'm pulled into another hall in the web of a layout that is this mysterious floor. When I spin around, I come face to face with Tamlin.

## Aftershave

"Tamlin, I—" My words get caught in my throat as he draws impossibly close, and the smell of his aftershave fills my nostrils. It's overwhelming, overbearing, and I become desperate to get away from him, gagging on his scent. I need to find Rhys or someone—anyone that might bear witness to what's about to transpire.

Lucien. I was so close to Lucien.

Fear seizes my bones as I realize I won't find any help out there, that the rest of these men are just as bad as Tamlin, and those that aren't, are too afraid. I swallow; they could be worse even.

"Feyre," Tamlin purrs, and I shiver out of fear rather than that something else like I did with Rhys earlier.

He misreads the reaction anyway, reaching out and brushing his knuckle against my cheek; I flinch, which upsets him. Tamlin's green eyes turn hard, and his jaw clenches as he fights that vicious instinct of his to lash out at me. The one that drove me away in the first place.

"I want to talk to you," he says, voice carefully void of emotions. Somehow that's worse. His breath reeks of alcohol. "Can we go somewhere private? I've booked a room on the next floor for the evening; we could—"

"We should get back to the party," I interrupt with a nervous laugh, sidestepping around him. The idea of even being in this cramped little hallway is more than I can handle. Besides, if Tamlin gets me upstairs, away from everyone… I shudder again. I don't know what he's capable of anymore. I barely knew before.

"Feyre, wait for just a second," Tamlin demands, grabbing my wrist as I walk away. I snatch hard, yanking myself free of his fingers before they can lock into place. I'm not the girl that I used to be, I tell myself; I'm not someone he can puppet or boss around anymore.

Tamlin calls my name once more, but I'm already back in the main space now, nearly at the elevator. Rhys's eyes lock with mine, wide and worried, as he searches the upstairs for me, somehow knowing where to find me. Locating me, he schools his expression into place, heading in my direction; his eyes darken at what, or rather who, he sees behind me.

The elevator is in the opposite direction, but at the sight of Rhys, I change course and all but run for him, sweeping into the ocean of smoke, bodies, and drinking.

"Feyre," Tamlin barks after me. A glance behind me allows me to see him; Tamlin charges after me like a bull that's seen red. "Get back here!"

I hurry my steps towards Rhys, and those bottomless blue eyes have gone cold. With anger, I realize—anger at Tamlin.

_I have a plan,_ Rhys told me during the car ride over. He sits beside me, giving me room to breathe in the cramped space. _You might call it… a back-up plan. To piss off Tamlin… dissuade him from approaching you anymore._

_What?_ I asked eagerly, even as something in his posture tells me I might not like it. I'd do nearly anything to get the man in question to leave me alone; I wanted nothing to do with Tamlin. The look on my face must tell Rhys just that; his smile is wan.

_Let's just save it for desperate times_, Rhys tells me, regretting broaching the subject. _I think it's best if it's more of a last resort than a plan of action. Let's focus on keeping away from him instead. And Amarantha._

I weave as quickly as I can through the maze of guests and furniture, ignoring Tamlin's eyes on the back of my head. I wonder where Amarantha has gotten off to, where her horrible sidekick is at. Rhys has escaped them, but there's something in the way he carries himself that tells me Rhys did not make it out unscathed either.

I'm moving so quickly, with my head down, that I collide into a broad chest. A pair of warm, broad hands catch me by the elbows, but this time I sigh with relief. When I look up, it's into soothing, violet eyes. Rhys gives me a brief once over, and then he glares over my head towards my nightmare.

Rhys's hand comes to rest on the side of my face, and my breath becomes trapped in my lungs. My eyes are wide with surprise when his thumb swipes across my bottom lip, and my mouth falls open from the gesture. It gives Rhys the opening he needs to catch my lips with his and swipe his tongue into my mouth for a dirty, showy kiss.

I'm frozen in place, but my body goes hot. Rhys nips at my lips, urging me to respond, to play along, as his fingers brush my hair away from our faces. Something in me snaps, and I lift onto my toes, returning the kiss with just as much vigor as Rhys. My tongue slides against his, and my fingers curl around the lapels of his jacket in response.

Someone hollers in delight. Another whistles at our display.

"Fucking whore," Tamlin spits, causing us to break away from one another. Rhys's eyes shine with mirth, and I have to look away from him, suddenly ashamed of what I've done, of how many people just witnessed that.

Tamlin's green eyes are waiting for me to look at him. I've never seen such disgust aimed in my direction before, even from him; it freezes my blood, the unrestrained hate in those eyes. Rhys's arm falls across my shoulders, pulling me into his side in a purely proprietary move.

"I can see why you've worked so hard to earn her back," Rhys coos at Tamlin in that hateful, charismatic voice of his. "She's one hell of a kisser. Good at other things, too."

Horror floods me even if I know what game Rhys is playing. He warned me after all. Tamlin sneers at both of us, but it's me he throws his contempt at. He's too much of a coward to pick a fight with Rhys.

"I always knew you were a ladder-climbing bitch," Tamlin hisses, and I can't help the gasp that escapes me. "Lucien was right about you."

Rhys is silent as I watch Tamlin walk away. I should feel relief right now, should feel that wonderful sensation of freedom that I've chased ever since Lucien broke me free of my bedroom prison, but I just feel… heavy. My skin burns with shame.

"I'm—" I stomp on Rhys's foot with the heel of my shoe; it probably hurts like hell, but the bastard deserves it. He chokes on his words, and I spin away from him, rushing from the ballroom floor. I can't breathe in this place anymore. I'm suffocating. The walls are closing in. Out. I need out.

"Feyre," I hear Rhys call after me, but I'm done with coming whenever a man calls for me. So, I leave the party without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time's are wild in the world right now. Everyone be safe! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts, opinions, and snarky comments are always appreciated!
> 
> Thanks again!


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